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Blurb
Jane isn't entirely sure that Cinderella
got such a raw deal. Sure, she had a rough start, but didn't she eventually
land a prince and a happily-ever-after? Meanwhile, Jane is busy waiting on her
demanding, entitled sisters, running her cleaning business, and . . . yep, not
a prince in sight. Until a party and a broken shoe incident leave Jane
wondering if princes---or at least, a certain deliciously hunky
billionaire---maybe do exist.
Except Brock Wellington isn't anyone's
dream guy. Hell, a prince would never agree to be auctioned off in marriage to
the highest bidder. Or act like an arrogant jerk---even if it was just a
façade. Now, as Brock is waiting for the auction chopping block, he figures
it's karmic retribution that he's tempted by a sexy, sassy woman he can't have.
But while they can't have a fairy-tale ending, maybe they can indulge in a
little bit of fantasy.
Jane was pressed so tightly against
the wall she would have sworn her body was starting to blend into the
wallpaper. Most people didn’t give her a second glance. Then again, she
wouldn’t give herself a second glance either.
Women with
fake boobs and injected lips mocked her while rich men in three-piece suits
completely ignored her.
She
self-consciously tugged at hem of the short black dress. In a last ditch effort
to modernize the dress, or at least add a bit of spice, she’d grabbed her
mother’s long pearls, wrapped them around her neck twice and called it good.
But the
minute they’d arrived at the party she’d wanted to disappear. Her sisters were
already semi-drunk, thanks to the vodka they’d had in the car. Against Jane’s
protests they’d taken shots while she drove. And then she’d paid for parking
only to hear them whine that she had parked too far away.
They’d been
here for twenty minutes and already she wanted to leave, or at least sit down,
but most of the available space was taken by couples talking, eating…kissing.
She was
surrounded by the beautiful and rich.
The only
reason her sisters had even been invited was because they were complete and
total social climbers, and had managed to gain an invitation from a friend who
was an heiress to some french fry company.
A waiter
passed by with champagne.
She grabbed
a glass and downed the entire thing. It didn’t help her nerves, but at least
the bubbles semi-calmed her stomach.
Her sweaty
feet slid in her too-big red pumps as she pressed harder against the wall to
alleviate the ache in her toes.
The music
shifted to a loud techno song as the lights went from red to a bright white,
and with a gasp she covered her eyes and then blinked a few times to clear her
line of vision.
The jumbled
sweaty bodies moved aside as the music changed to a slow song. There was just
enough of a break for her to see across the room.
“Oh.” It was
all she could utter, really the only word she was capable of as her breathing
picked up. Without thinking, she grabbed another glass of champagne from a
passing waiter, suddenly awkward. What was she supposed to do with her hands?
Thick wavy
auburn hair fell in disarray over his forehead. It was lush, shiny, perfect.
Were guys born with hair like that? Or was his somehow chemically engineered?
His full lips pressed together in a secret smile as the equally handsome man
next to him said something, then erupted in laughter.
The first
man stiffened, then shook his head. His broad shoulders seemed to grow tight as
a drum. A slight tic in his jaw was the only clue that he was irritated or
maybe outright angry.
And then his
shoulders slumped as he was handed another drink and then another.
Nervous. He
must be nervous. But what could a man like that possibly have to be nervous
about?
He easily
towered over most of the men in attendance. Suddenly his posture changed, then
he smiled.
Jane felt
her mouth drop open in shock.
Dazzling.
He was…like
a duke or a lord or a prince from a storybook. Clearly, she read too many
romance novels, but his entire presence demanded attention; screamed authority,
importance, and sex. Lots and lots of sex.
Yes, his
virility was a tangible thing, as if she could reach out and grasp it with her
fingertips.
“What are
you doing?” Esmeralda yelled in her right ear, interrupting her blatant sexual
fantasy about a complete stranger. Great. That’s what her life had come to. And
sadly? It was the most fun she’d had all night.
Jane turned
to Esmeralda, prayed for patience, and answered. “Sorry, I was just thinking.”
“You’re so
boring.” Esmeralda rolled her eyes. “No wonder you got dumped.”
Another fun
fact? Esmeralda was mean when she was drunk.
The reminder
of the breakup burned like acid.
It had been
a year ago, not that it mattered. It still hurt that the last guy she’d dated
had told her that although she was cute, she wasn’t really doing it for him
anymore.
Right. Doing
it.
Maybe that
was because she hadn’t done anything for him or with him, and he found that
lacking. But they’d only dated for a few weeks. Did normal girls do that? Put
out after a few weeks? Apparently.
She wasn’t
normal.
But if that
was normal, maybe she was better off being strange.
“Jane, are
you even listening to me?” Esmeralda whined. “Essence needs you to dance next
to her for a bit. I’m tired and tipsy. I want to sit. Plus your dress blends in
enough that it won’t take attention away from her.”
No way.
What? What had she just said?
Jane wrapped
her arms around her middle. “I’m sorry, what?”
Without
warning, Esmeralda grabbed Jane’s hand and jerked her toward the dance floor,
causing Jane to lose her footing and crash directly into Esmeralda’s back.
Then, like a domino, she slammed back into Essence.
Jane opened
her mouth to shout out an apology, but Esmeralda was already too drunk to
listen to reason. With determination in her eyes, she reached for the pearls at
Jane’s neck but grabbed the fabric of the dress instead.
Her poorly
sewn dress ripped instantly, causing the fabric to slink past her strapless bra.
A diagonal slit split up her thigh almost all the way to her hip. In an effort to cover herself, she took a step and
tripped, thanks to her clunky shoes.
And then she
fell to the floor.
Hard.
Her sisters
watched in horror—but neither of them offered a hand. They were probably
kicking themselves for forcing her to come. Esmeralda leaned over but missed
Jane’s shoulder by a mile, grabbing her hair and giving it a tug, which only
made Jane wince harder.
Both sisters
were completely tanked.
And she was
less than two minutes away from being trampled by the other sweaty bodies
around her.
She glanced
up.
And into the
eyes of the man she’d just been lusting after.
Oh God, the
humiliation was complete.
That one
glance told her he’d seen it all. She swallowed back the thickness building in
her throat. Of course the only time he’d notice her would be when she’d ripped
her dress and nearly took out a few guests on her way down to the dance floor.
The crowd
gathered around her.
And the sexy
man disappeared—probably off in search of a girl with perfect hair, perfect
teeth, perfect clothes.
She really
should have stayed home.
Tears filled
her eyes as a heel pressed into her right hand. With a jerk she tugged her hand
free, struggling to get up to stand on her wobbly feet, when suddenly she was
pulled to a standing position and then swept up in strong arms.
Jane’s eyes
were still so blurry from unshed tears she couldn’t make out the man’s face as
he carried her out of the crowd.
He smelled
like heaven.
She fought
the insane urge to press her face against his chest and just…close her eyes.
Because he
felt safe.
Pathetic,
when a stranger’s arms provided more safety than her own family. And yet he
felt…right.
In a world
where things for the past ten years had felt so wrong.
He felt
right.
Maybe she’d
had too much champagne.
“Are you all
right?” he whispered in a deep voice with a hint of a southern drawl. He’d
brought her into a private room where the music wasn’t quite so deafening.
He set her
on one of the black leather couches and shut the door, muffling the music on
the other side.
Blinking,
Jane glanced up and gawked, like a starry-eyed teenager. He was the same man
she’d seen earlier, the one she’d been captivated by. “Yes.”
“Yes?” He
looked confused. His amazing eyebrows drew together, and a small line creased
the center of his forehead. Even the line was gorgeous, just as gorgeous as the
rest of him.
His thickly
muscled body screamed power. Her hands slid down the front of his chest. Even
his shirt was smooth. She didn’t realize she’d been basically petting him until
his muscles tensed beneath her palm. Oh crap.
“I mean,
yes, I’m fine.” She tried to stand then fell back down; her stupid heel was
broken. “Or I was fine, until I got trampled.”
The line in
his forehead deepened. “You’re not hurt, are you?”
Jane shook
her head then pressed her hand to her chest and gasped out, “My pearls!”
“Wait here.”
He held out his hands. “I’ll get the necklace, I’m sure it’s where you fell
and—”
“No.” Jane
slumped, defeated. “They broke off when my sis—” She corrected herself, not
wanting to claim the crazies in the other room. “They broke apart when I fell.”
The man
sighed loudly and ran his fingers through his perfect hair. “I’ll talk to the
club manager and see if anyone turns them in.”
It was on
the tip of her tongue to give him all the many reasons why they were
irreplaceable, but instead she settled with, “That’s really not necessary. It’s
not your fault I was a victim of the techno craze.”
His upper
lip curled. “I hate techno.”
“Me too.”
“Is there
something I can do? Anything? You promise you aren’t hurt?”
“Careful or
you’re going to have me believe you got me trampled on purpose in order to trap
me in a private room,” she joked as a smile tugged at her lips.
“Had I known
you were willing, I wouldn’t have had to go to such extremes to orchestrate
it.”
He appeared
stunned by his own answer.
Her breath
hitched. Was he flirting with her?
His crystal
blue eyes twinkled with amusement.
“So…” Her
voice was hoarse, like an old woman’s. Great. “I should probably get back to
the party.” Why did she need to go back again? All the reasons seemed to
disappear as he maneuvered around the couch and popped a bottle of champagne
that had been chilling in a nearby crystal bucket.
“Why don’t
you and I have a drink first?” He peered around the table. “I’ll need to send
for some shoes. It’s the least I can do.” His gaze heated. “Shoes are
appropriate to purchase for a stranger. A dress, I’m afraid…” The corners of
his mouth tilted into a sultry smile as his eyes slowly raked over the scraps
of fabric barely covering her breasts. “Not so much.”
Did people
do that these days? Just send for shoes? Who was this guy? “Really, it’s not
necessary. I’ll just stick to the shadows so I don’t scare anyone with my limp
and I’ll be okay.” She sounded more confident than she felt, and her lower lip
trembled a bit. Next time she was going to hold her ground, stay home, read a
book, and be plain boring Jane. This wasn’t her scene. Not by a long shot.
He leaned in
close, so close she could smell his aftershave again. “A woman like you doesn’t
belong in the shadows.”
Uncomfortable,
she tried to make light of the situation again. “Wow, a hero and good with
words. I bet you’re just a regular handful, aren’t you?”
“Me?” He laughed
as if the thought was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. “No, that would be my
twin brothers. They’re the handfuls. I’m…” He seemed to think about it. “Just
Brock.”
“Well, Just
Brock…” Jane held out her hand. “I’m Just Jane.”
His hand
completely engulfed hers as their palms pressed against one another. He was so
warm. And big.
Huge.
Huge hands.
That meant something, right?
Crap, she
was still shaking his hand, and he was grinning at her as if it was the
funniest thing that had ever happened to him. And he was looking at her. At her
eyes, not at the fact that she was half-naked on a couch, with a broken shoe.
With a jerk,
she pulled her hand back and nervously reached to tuck a stray piece of hair
behind her ear.
“So, Brock.”
Jane looked down at his shoes. That was safe. Shoes. Nothing sexy about a man’s
feet, right? Except his were inside shoes that she ventured probably cost more
than she’d ever see in a lifetime. “About those shoes.”
“Shoes.” He
repeated the word and then quickly stood. “Right, just wait here.”
He
disappeared, giving her the breathing room she absolutely positively needed,
only to re-appear a few seconds later.
Without
shoes.
She frowned;
then again, what had she expected? That he’d bang some plastic Barbie over the
head with his cell phone, steal her shoes, and then toss them to Jane?
Brock
studied her. “Your shoes should be here within the next fifteen minutes. I just
sent my degenerate brother across the street. Saks is still open. The night is
young.”
Saks?
Shoes from
Saks?
She’d never
owned anything from Saks. Ever. But she knew the store; didn’t every woman?
Still, the most expensive thing she’d ever owned had been the pearls.
“That’s
really…” She waved her hand in the air and stood. “Not necessary…you can tell
him that—”
Brock
reached for her hand and lightly tugged her back. “Sit. It is necessary. And
although I typically wait until the third date to buy a woman gifts, I think
your nearly getting trampled allows me to break that rule.”
Still tense,
Jane nodded and took a shaky look around the small, private room.
“To new
shoes?” Brock grabbed his drink and lifted it in the air toward her.
She lifted
her glass and clinked it against his then took a small sip. The champagne was
pink and sweet, with a tart aftertaste. “It’s good.”
“You sound
surprised.” Brock’s lips lifted in a smile.
She
scrunched up her nose. “I’m not much of a drinker, and I typically don’t like
drinks that are the same color as my underwear.”
The minute
the words were out of her mouth, she froze, barely managing to suppress the
urge to clap a hand over her mouth. She wanted someone to run her over with a
car.
With a
choke, Brock nearly spit out the sip he’d just taken. Face flushed, he stared
her down and then whispered, “You’re making me regret my decision to send out
for boring black shoes.”
“I didn’t…I
mean, pink is fine.” Stop talking, stop talking. “Not all of my underwear is
pink. I have black, too.”
Brock’s lips
parted with a greedy exhale, and he downed the rest of his drink. “Oh?”
Hell in a
handbasket.
Why was she
giving him a rundown of her lingerie drawer? As if he were a naughty Santa with
a checklist in front of him, putting down little marks on the little boxes that
read “red lacy thong”? Check. “Black boyshorts”? Double check.
“I’m more of
a boxer brief sort of guy,” he said smoothly, bringing her back to the present.
“Huh?”
“Too far?”
He chuckled. “I figured if I knew the color of yours…I should at least show you
mine.” He leaned forward.
Had he said
show?
Just how
drunk was he? Maybe that was the reason his eyes were zeroing in on her mouth.
He blinked, and then seemed to sway a bit.
Was he okay?
And why was he still staring at her mouth? Did she have something on her face?
Self-consciously,
she pressed her fingertips to her lips only to have him suck in a breath and
lift his right hand from his thigh as if wanting to touch the place where her
fingers had just been.
“Got the
shoes!” a male voice yelled as Jane jerked away from Brock.
What had
just happened?
“Holy shit,
you’re hot.”
She
recognized the man from before. He was about an inch shorter than Brock, but
had the same perfect auburn hair. “I’m Bentley, and since this one’s about to
get married, I feel like it’s only fair to let you know that out of the two of
us, I’m the single, available one, who’s also—lucky for you—been given a higher
rating in the sack.”
Married?
He was
getting married?
And hitting
on her?
Or was she
hitting on him? After all, she was the one who’d mentioned underwear. Ugh, she
wanted to crawl under the table and die.
About the
Author:
Rachel Van
Dyken is the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today Bestselling
author of regency and contemporary romances. When she's not writing you can
find her drinking coffee at Starbucks and plotting her next book while watching
The Bachelor.
She keeps
her home in Idaho with her Husband, adorable son, and two snoring boxers! She
loves to hear from readers!
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