Once Upon A Kiss...: The Cinderella Act / Princess in the Making / Temporarily His Princess. Michelle Celmer
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.
Sinclair usually preferred to help himself to some toast and coffee, but Annie never knew what guests might want, so she hovered in the kitchen ready to make an omelet or oatmeal. She wondered if Sinclair would come down first and they would have their talk before the others awoke.
To her dismay, Vicki was the first down the stairs, yawning, her sleek black hair knotted into a casual but elegant twist and her taut body showcased in skimpy capris and a cutoff T-shirt. “Morning, Annie. Is this where you ask me if I want breakfast?”
“You’re way ahead of me. What can I get you?” Annoying guests weren’t unusual. She managed a cheerful smile.
“Do you have any grapefruit?”
“I made a fruit salad of cantaloupe, grapes, honeydew and pineapple, but no grapefruit, I’m afraid. Would you like me to get you some?” Probably she was on some crackpot diet eating twenty-seven grapefruits a day and nothing else. She had that kind of body.
“God, no. Your fruit salad sounds fab. I’d kill for some scrambled eggs and bacon to go with it, if that’s a possibility. Any sign of Sinclair?”
Annie blinked. “Not so far.”
“Probably snuck out early to avoid us.” Vicki shot her a conspiratorial smile. “Not much of a people person, is he?”
Annie glanced