The Reluctant Cinderella (5 page)

“Well, that won't happen. Carly thinks of me as a friend. And that means I can't go out with you.”

He swore quietly. “You know that's just crap, don't you? You think you're protecting Carly? You're not. And you're not helping her, either.”

Megan said nothing. And Greg got the message: it didn't matter what he said. She wasn't going out with him. Period.

Finally, he muttered, “I guess we should go.” He reached for his cell phone to call them a cab.

 

Outside, as they waited for the taxi, Megan was careful not to stand too close to him.

In the restaurant, it had been so hard for her not to lean across the table, not to get as close to him as she possibly could. She really did love to…just be with him. To watch him as he talked—his crooked, wry smile, those warm brown eyes, the way he would tip his head to the side when he was thinking. More than once, as he told her about his lonely childhood and his failed marriage, she'd had to remind
herself not to reach across the table and lay her hand over his.

Greg turned to her as the cab slid to the curb in front of them. His mouth, usually so quick to smile, was now a bleak line. “One more thing…”

She didn't know if she could take any more—not and keep remembering to tell him no. “Oh, Greg…”

“There's something I want you to see, okay? In Rosewood. Let me take you there. Please.”

She reminded herself that she needed to repeat all the things she'd already said—that she couldn't. She wouldn't. It was impossible; it wasn't going to work.

But his brown eyes were shining and the summer sun struck gold lights in his thick brown hair. And, well, he'd asked her so gently. So very sincerely.

If she was never going to go out with him, well, what could it hurt to do this one last thing he'd asked of her?

Not to mention she was curious. What could he have to show her in Rosewood? She dared a smile. “All right. I'd love to see it…whatever it is.”

His face seemed to light up from within. “Well, okay, then. Let's get after it.”

 

During the ride to Rosewood, they hardly spoke. Megan, who didn't feel all that chatty herself, looked out her side window at the suburban sprawl and thought about the things Greg had said in the restaurant.

They pretty much amounted to what Angela had told her last week. Greg and Carly were divorced.
The marriage was over for Greg; he was never returning to the McMansion on Danbury Way. Megan's saying no to him wouldn't help Carly to get him back—or to get on with her life, for that matter.

In fact, if Carly finally had to accept that there was another woman in Greg's life, it might actually end up making it easier for her to move on. From that angle, Megan would be doing her a favor by going out with Greg.

Yeah, right. Megan seriously doubted that Carly would see it that way.

When they reached Rosewood, Megan asked the cabbie to drop them at the train station so she could pick up her car. Greg said they were going to Sycamore Street, which was only five blocks from Danbury Way. She sent him a suspicious glance, but he wouldn't say more, so she started up the car and off they went.

When she turned onto Sycamore, he pointed at a fine-looking two-story house, redbrick with white shutters, on the west side of the street—a Federal-style colonial, like most of the houses in the neighborhood.

“Pull into the driveway,” he said.

The driveway curved around to a side-entry garage. The door began rolling up as they approached it.

Megan let out a surprised laugh. He showed her the opener he had in his hand. She teased, “Do the owners know you've stolen their garage-door opener?”

“Very funny. Drive on in.”

She tapped the gas and the car nosed into the empty space. Greg pressed the button on the remote; the wide door rolled down behind them. She turned off the engine. “Who lives here?”

“No one, at the moment.”

“This house is yours?”

“Yes, it is.”

“It's beautiful—from the outside, at least.”

“I think so.”

“Complete with white picket fence and a matched pair of sycamore trees on the front lawn.”

He looked so pleased with himself. “Don't forget the white shutters.”

“I noticed those. And that cute brick walk that leads up to the front steps…”

“It all just says ‘home' to me.”

“Well, yeah—in a totally upstate New York suburban kind of way.”

“See, that's exactly what I was going for.”

“When you bought it, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

“And when was that?”

“A week after Carly threw me out.”

Megan realized she was leaning across the console toward him—as he leaned toward her. An inch or two more and they'd be kissing, for heaven's sake.

She bolted up straight and asked just a little too forcefully, “So. Are we going in?”

He watched her for a moment, his face unread
able, as her heart beat too fast and her breath tangled in her throat. And then, with an easy shrug, he slid the remote in a pocket—and came out with a key. “You bet we are.”

She waited as he unlocked the door that led inside, and then followed him into a combination laundry room and pantry. A window over the laundry sink looked out on a big backyard.

Greg took a moment to deal with the alarm, then began randomly opening cabinets. “Nice hardware, don't you think? And lots of storage space.”

She played along with him, keeping it teasing and light. “Absolutely. I can't think of a better laundry room, anywhere.”

“I knew you'd say that.” He was probably a little bit closer than he should have been. She got a hint of his aftershave—and found it way too tempting.

She moved back a step and gestured at the twin blank spaces beneath a row of cabinets. “Wouldn't hurt to get a washer and dryer, though. Hard to do the laundry without them.”

“Good thinking.”

“And a personal touch or two, that would be nice. Maybe a few houseplants, a little greenery in the window…”

“Great idea.” He closed the distance she had just opened. “I'd already thought of the washer and dryer. But the houseplants hadn't even occurred to me.”

“And laundry supplies. Those are a must.”

“Laundry supplies,” he repeated in a musing tone.

“Detergent, bleach…” She realized she was
looking at his mouth. He had a really fine mouth—a slightly fuller lower lip and a kind of pensive curve at the corners…

“I'll start a list,” he said in a low voice.

“Yes. Good. A list…” And once again they were practically touching. Why, if she stretched up tall and moved her head forward a couple of inches, she could press her lips to his.

But of course, she wasn't going to do that. She didn't even know why such a thought had dared to creep into her mind. Twice. First out in the car and now here, in the laundry room.

Uh-uh. No way.

“Megan?” His voice was soft. Would his lips be soft, too, if she were to kiss him?

Bad question. Irresponsible question. She had to stop thinking about kissing him.

He said her name again, even more softly than before.

“Um. Yeah?”

He was almost smiling—as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. “Would you like to see the kitchen?” He gestured toward the open door.

“Terrific. The kitchen.” She turned and stepped through the doorway into a roomy breakfast nook with a picture window that looked out, like the one in the laundry room, on the backyard. “Very nice.”

“Lots of light,” he said from behind her, and the sound of his voice seemed to vibrate all through her, it was so warm. And much too exciting.

She stared at the granite-topped peninsula that
marked off the kitchen area. “A Viking cooktop,” she said on an exhaled breath. “Impressive.”

“Sub-Zero refrigerator,” he murmured, still behind her—
closer
behind her, as a matter of fact.

She felt the naughty smile as it tugged on the corner of her mouth. “Next you'll be telling me that's a Bosch dishwasher.”

“Two of them.”

“No…”

“Yeah. See? On the opposite side of the sink?”

“Wow.”

“It's the latest thing. For busy families and time-crunched executives. You can live your whole life without ever putting the dishes away. You use them straight from one dishwasher, loading them into the other until it's full. Then you switch.” He stood right behind her now. “I'm all for efficiency.” His whisper was as intimate as a caress.

“Uh, yeah. Me, too.” It took all the willpower she possessed not to lean back against him with a surrendering sigh, not to give in to the potent desire to feel those strong arms of his closing around her. “I love the light fixtures, too,” she said, breathlessly.

“That pleases me no end—that you like them.”

“I do.”
I do?
Was she out of her mind? Telling Greg Banning
I do?
This had to stop. She needed to…turn around, for crying out loud. Turn around and face him.

Somehow, she mustered the gumption to do just that. She turned and found herself looking straight at his power tie and his strong, tanned neck. She cleared her throat.

“What?” he said. Though she was looking at his tie and not his face, she knew he was smiling. She could hear that smile in his voice.

She tipped her head up and met his eyes. Gorgeous eyes. Standing so close, she could see a rim of ebony around the brown irises and little rays of gold coming off the dark pupils. “Time to…move on.”

He nodded. Slowly. “You got it.” And again he gestured—this time through the kitchen area to the arch that led to the dining room. She turned and pointed herself in the direction he'd indicated.

In the dining room, she admired the hardwood floor and the simple craftsman-style stained glass chandelier that hung over the place where the table should have been.

Before he could move too close and get her thinking about kissing him again, she kept going, into the great room, with its big brick fireplace, cherry mantel and twin tall windows looking out on the front yard.

“Beautiful,” she said, and, “Very nice,” as they moved through the central hallway.

He pointed at a shut door. “Half bath,” he stated.

“A must.”

He sent her a look that managed to be both humorous and sexy. Big trouble, oh, yes. She kept her mouth shut and answered his look with a shrug. He led her on to the master suite.

She didn't linger there. Uh-uh. Even without a bed to get her thinking of all the intimacies she was never going to share with him, the master bedroom was still a dangerous place for the two of them to be.

She hurried on into the master bath. “Two sinks. A necessity.”

“Yeah. I thought so, too.”

There was also a huge shower and a sunken tub more than big enough for two, complete with spa jets.

Oh, my, yes. Too dangerous for words. With a smile and a nod she slipped past him, back out into the empty bedroom. She admired the walk-in closet and the roomy dressing area. And then, at last, he ushered her out of there.

The front hall was spacious and welcoming. Afternoon light, spilling in through the sidelights that flanked the front door, made the wood floor gleam.

She followed him upstairs, her hand trailing on the smooth cherry banister. There were two more bedrooms up there, each with a big walk-in closet. The bedrooms shared a central bath.

“That's it,” he told her, as they stood in the upper hall, ready to go down.

“It's lovely. Honestly.”

“Thank you.”

“If you don't mind my asking…”

“Anything. Go for it.”

“Well, why, exactly, did you buy it?”

“I told you. I like Rosewood. I keep thinking that someday I might move back to town.”

“At least you've got all your window treatments,” she said. “I like them. They're simple. Elegant. The plantation shutters—and the Roman shades and wood blinds. However…”

“I'm listening.”

“Before you move in, better buy some furniture. And dishes. Pots and pans. Towels. Sheets. Paper goods. Food. Those laundry supplies we talked about a few minutes ago. All that.”

He grinned. “You think so, huh?”

“Even two Bosch dishwashers aren't a lot of good if you don't have dishes to put in them.”

“Yeah. I know. I need to get started on all that. But the truth is I just never had the heart for it.”

“For buying furniture and stuff, you mean?”

“For being in Rosewood where so much went wrong for me.” Once again, he was standing close. She should move back. But she didn't. He added, “I have to tell you, though…”

“Yeah?” She was sounding much too breathless again.

“There's nowhere else on earth I'd rather be at this moment, than here. In Rosewood. With you…” He moved then, a step closer still.

Too close…

Too wonderfully, deliciously close. His warm breath touched her cheek and he lifted a hand to brush a stray lock of hair back out of her eyes—oh, that was heaven. Just the touch of his fingers at her temple, on her cheek, guiding those strands of hair back behind her ear. She didn't
mean
to raise her mouth to him—well, not exactly. And she didn't mean to sigh in yearning. But she did.

And when she did, he lowered his mouth to hers.

M
egan sighed some more and swayed closer to him. He gathered her into his arms.

Now, this.
This
was heaven. Pure heaven, right here in Rosewood, New York. Standing in the upper hallway of Greg's empty house, wrapped in his arms, with his mouth—softer even than she'd dared to imagine—on hers.

He deepened the kiss, touching the tip of his tongue to the seam where her lips met. She instantly opened for him, sighing some more as his tongue brushed hers. He smiled against her mouth and that made her smile, too.

She slid her hands up over the fine fabric of his jacket, intimately aware of the heat and hardness of
the chest beneath. She touched his crisp white collar, ran her fingers up the side of his throat and brushed his temples, where his hair was cut business-short.

Oh, he felt so very
good.
To hold, to touch, to kiss….

And about that…about the way the man could kiss.

How did he do it? Okay, she didn't have a whole lot of experience with kissing, but still. A kiss, after all, was only a kiss….

Wasn't it?

That would be no. Not with Greg.

With Greg, it was…different. With Greg it was so much more.

The miracle, the wonder, the beauty of his kiss was in the way he held her, so tightly and tenderly, as if he cherished her above everything and everyone. As if he'd never, ever let her go. It was in the way his lips brushed hers and then settled in, deeper, harder, hotter….

He stole her breath and stopped her heart with that kiss of his, as his tongue stroked the secret places beyond her lips, and his hands roamed her back, rubbing, caressing, making all kinds of promises. Promises that didn't need words. Promises made in the heat and the knowing pressure of his touch.

She could have stood there forever, drinking his kiss, kissing him back, feeling wanted—needed, even—feeling truly beautiful for the first time in her life.

But then he lifted his lips from hers a fraction and whispered her name. “Megan…”

And she whispered back. “Greg…”

And somehow, that did it—saying his name aloud. It made it all achingly, terribly clear.

This couldn't go anywhere. She'd told him so and he had understood her.

This was impossible.

This was not going to be.

When he tried to claim her lips again, she shook her head. She flattened her hands on his broad chest and gently, firmly, pushed him away. He resisted, but only for a moment. His arms fell—and she wanted more than anything to sway toward him again.

But she didn't. She stepped back and whispered weakly, “I'm…sorry. So sorry…”

He shook his head. “Sorry doesn't help.” His lips were swollen, red, from kissing her.

She knew hers were the same. And she couldn't stay here. If she did, she'd only end up kissing him some more. “We…we have to go.”

“Yeah. All right. Whatever you say.” He turned without another word and headed down the stairs. She stared after him, stunned at what had happened.

Now, after that kiss, the fact that there could be no more seemed so terrible. So totally wrong…

But no. It wasn't wrong. There was Carly to think about. Carly, who trusted her. Carly, who had cried on Megan's shoulder, revealing her heartbreak as she never would have done if she'd known about this…

At the bottom of the stairs, Greg looked up at Megan, his eyes hooded and his jaw set. “I need a ride back to the station.”

She shook herself. “Of course.” And hurried down.

 

In the garage, Megan trotted right over and climbed in the car while Greg reset the alarm and locked the inner door. She started up the engine and he got in. The garage door trundled up.

Carefully, because she was shaking and didn't really trust herself behind the wheel, she put the car in reverse, peered back over the seat and slowly pulled out. Greg rolled the door down with the remote.

She backed—too slowly, with painstaking care—out onto Sycamore Street, carefully turning the wheel so the car was pointed in the right direction. She was so busy concentrating on her driving that she almost didn't notice the two women in jogging shorts and sports bras walking their matching Yorkshire terriers on the other side of the street.

She gasped when she did see them. Ohmigod. Irene Dare and Rhonda Johnson, the two biggest gossips in Rosewood.

And they had seen her with Greg.

They'd stopped, stock-still, on the sidewalk, their little dogs yapping at their feet. They gaped from Megan's face—flushed with pure guilt, she just knew it—to Greg's, and back again.

Greg waved. The two lifted their arms in unison and waved back. Megan drove on down the street.

She couldn't keep herself from looking in the rearview mirror as she turned the corner. Irene and Rhonda had not moved on. They stood in the same spot, their dogs jumping and barking around their feet. They were no longer staring, though. Now they were talking, urgently—Irene's dark head bent down to Rhonda's frizzy red one.

Dear Lord. Let this be the one time they keep their big mouths shut….

Even as Megan formed the little prayer, she knew it was hopeless. Rhonda and Irene would make sure everyone in the neighborhood—including Carly—heard about how they'd seen Megan and Greg together, coming out of that empty house on Sycamore Street.