The Cinderella Act

“You should dress up more often,” Sinclair said gruffly.

“I don’t really get the chance.” Annie glanced across the room, where she could see a partial reflection in the mirror on the large wardrobe. She looked imposing in the long dress, and the dramatic blue brought out red-gold highlights in her hair. Sinclair’s tall form blocked one half of the view, his broad shoulders in a striped shirt concealing the cleavage he admired. From this angle they almost looked like a couple, the distance between them foreshortened as if they were pressed together.

Like that could ever happen.

She attempted another carefree laugh, and again it vanished in the air, which suddenly felt hot and oppressive. Sinclair’s frown deepened, and she shivered under his fierce stare. Words failed her as their gaze locked for a second, two seconds, three …

Sinclair’s lips met hers with sudden force as his arms gathered her close. She melted, her mouth welcoming his and kissing him back with six years of unspent passion.

I’m kissing Sinclair.

Dear Reader,

I recently spent two years living in England, surrounded by history. We lived in a medieval barn where you could look up at curved ceiling beams that had held the roof up for centuries. From the kitchen window I could see the site of Roman baths, and I found stone tool fragments and shards of pottery every time I did any gardening. Even the oak trees were hundreds of years old, and I could imagine Roundheads and Cavaliers challenging each other under their spreading branches. All this made me want to write a book where history reaches into the present. At the heart of my new series, THE DRUMMOND VOW, is a lost chalice, a family heirloom that—if found—could hold the power to shape the destiny of three men, and the women who love them. I hope you enjoy this first book in the series.

Jennifer Lewis

JENNIFER LEWIS has been dreaming up stories for as long as she can remember and is thrilled to be able to share them with readers. She has lived on both sides of the Atlantic and worked in media and the arts before she grew bold enough to put pen to paper. She would love to hear from readers at jen@jenlewis.com. Visit her website at www.jenlewis.com.

The Cinderella Act

Jennifer Lewis

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Jordan

One

“Are you sure this is safe?”

Annie tried to keep her eyes off Sinclair Drummond’s enticing backside as he climbed the rickety wooden stairs to the attic.

“No.” He flashed her a grin that made her knees wobble. “Especially with the curse hanging over our heads.”

“I guess I’ll take my chances.” As his employee, Annie Sullivan could hardly refuse. She stepped onto the first rung of the hand-hewn stairs that were barely more than a ladder. They led up into the ceiling of the old barn, which was attached to the house so Drummond ancestors didn’t have to face bitter winds howling in from Long Island Sound while tending to their animals. Now all it contained was an impressive collection of spiderwebs and brittle horse tack. The steps creaked alarmingly. “Have you ever been up here?” She hadn’t, which was strange in itself.

Sinclair reached the top and pushed open a trap door. “Sure. When I was a kid. I used to hide up here when my parents argued.”

Annie frowned. She couldn’t imagine his quiet, dignified mother raising her voice, but she’d never met his father. He’d died in some kind of accident years ago.

“I doubt anyone’s been up here since.” He disappeared into the dark hole, and she climbed the stairs behind him with a growing sense of anticipation. A light snapped on, filling the opening with bright light. “I’m glad that still works. I didn’t fancy searching by candlelight.” Rain drummed on the shake roof overhead. His voice sounded far away, and she hurried to catch up to him. Her head cleared the entrance and she saw a row of uncovered bulbs dangling from the center beam of the windowless attic. Boxes and crates were piled along the sides, among disused tables, chairs and other, less identifiable pieces of furniture. The far wall was almost hidden behind a stack of big leather trunks bearing steamer labels. Despite the size of the room, very little of the wood floor was visible.

“So this is what three hundred years’ worth of pack rats leave behind them. Where do we start?” Her fingers tingled with anticipation at rifling through the Drummond family’s possessions. Which was funny, since that’s what she did every day in her job. Of course dusting and polishing silver wasn’t nearly as exciting as opening an old steamer trunk filled with mothballs and mystery.

Sinclair lifted the lid of a chest, which appeared to be filled with folded quilts. “Hell if I know. I suppose we just start plowing through and hope for the best.” He’d rolled up his sleeves, and she watched his muscular forearm reach boldly into the fabric. “The cup fragment is made of metal, apparently. Possibly silver, but more likely pewter. It doesn’t have any inherent value.”

His shirt strained against his strong back as he reached deeper. Annie’s heart rate quickened. Why did her boss have to be so gorgeous? It wasn’t fair. She’d worked for him for six years and he’d only grown more handsome with age. He was thirty-two and his thick, dark hair didn’t bear a single strand of gray, despite his two expensive divorces.

“And it’s supposed to be cursed?” Annie suppressed a shiver as she glanced around. Her Irish ancestors would be crossing themselves.

“It’s the family that’s cursed, not the cup.” Sinclair lifted his head and shot her a disarming glance. “Three hundred years of misery, which can apparently be lifted if the three parts of this ancient cup are put back together.” He snorted. “I think it’s a load of rubbish, but my mom is really excited about it. She’s sure it will change all our lives.”

“I was glad to hear she’s doing better. Did they ever find out what made her so sick?”

“A rare tropical disease, apparently, similar to cholera. She’s lucky to be alive. She’s still quite weak so I’ve told her she should come out here for some rest.”

“Absolutely, I’d be happy to take care of her.”

“I’m hoping she’ll come nose around up here herself. Then you won’t have to do all the work.”

Annie’s heart sank a little. So she couldn’t look forward to a summer in the attic watching Sinclair’s broad hands reaching into mysterious boxes. She’d worked here for six years, yet on some level they were almost strangers. She loved being alone with him when there were no guests to entertain and she got a glimpse of a more relaxed Sinclair. The search for the cup seemed like a great opportunity to get to know him better. Instead, she’d be up here sweating under the rafters by herself. Still, the history all around her was intriguing. She walked over to a tall woven basket and lifted the lid. Coiled rope filled the inside, and as she pulled at it, she could imagine the hands that wound this rope in an era before machines. Everything around them must tell a story. “Why does she think the family is cursed? You all seem very successful.”

Her own family would probably kill for a fraction of the abundance the Drummonds enjoyed.

“The Drummonds have done all right for themselves over the years. An old family legend has my mom convinced, however, that we’re all cursed, which is why she got so sick.” He lifted out a pile of clothes and she blinked at the powerful muscles in his thighs, visible through his pressed khakis, as he leaned to touch the bottom of the trunk. She startled as he suddenly looked up. “And why none of us can stay married for long.” His blue-gray eyes shone with a wry mix of humor and remorse. “She’s on a quest to unearth the three pieces of the cup and put them back together. She’s sure it will turn things around for the Drummonds.” He shoved the clothes back in the trunk and slammed the lid. “Of course I don’t believe in the curse but I’d do anything to help her recover, and this has her really excited so I promised to help.”

“That’s sweet of you.”

“Not really.” He shoved a hand through his hair as he surveyed the piles of debris left over from former lives. “If it keeps her occupied she won’t start nagging me to marry again.”

Annie had watched grimly as he’d courted and dated his calculating and phony second wife. She wasn’t sure she could stand to go through that again. “I suppose she’s desperate for grandchildren.”

“Yes, though you have to wonder why. Is it really necessary to carry the curse through to another generation?” His crooked smile made her smile, too. Of course his mother wanted grandchildren to spoil and fuss over. Though she wasn’t likely to ever get any, if Sinclair’s taste in women was anything to go by. She’d never met his first wife, but Diana Lakeland wasn’t the type to risk her figure on a pregnancy. She’d married Sinclair for the wealth and prestige that made him one of New York’s most eligible bachelors, then grown tired of him when he didn’t want to jet around the world attending parties every night.

If only he could see he was wasted on those spoiled princesses. She couldn’t tell him that, though. It was part of her job to be friendly, even intimate. But she also had to know where to draw the line between professional and personal, and never cross it.

She moved away from the basket of rope—more than enough to hang yourself with—and lifted a small wooden box from a high shelf. She opened the lid and found a cache of what looked like hairpins. Expensive ones, carved from tortoiseshell and bone. She wondered what Drummond damsel had tucked them into her tresses. “This does feel like looking for a needle in a haystack. Though it’s an interesting haystack. Who did the cup belong to?”

“The Drummonds come from the Scottish Highlands. Gaylord Drummond was a gambler and drinker, who lost the family estate in a wager in 1712. His three sons, left penniless and landless, set out for America to seek their fortune. The brothers went their separate ways after their ship docked, and apparently they split up a metal chalice of some sort, each of them taking a piece. They intended to reunite the cup once they’d all made their fortunes. One of them settled here on Long Island, and built a farm where we sit today.”

“I suppose that explains why you have such a large piece of prime waterfront real estate.” The original farmhouse had been expanded over the years into a magnificent shingle-style “cottage” with bold gables and wide verandas. The old potato fields had been transformed into pristine lawn and lush orchards of apple, pear and peach trees. Once a sleepy village, Dog Harbor was now surrounded by the suburban sprawl of New York City. One ancestor had sold a field to a post-war developer to build tract housing. Sinclair’s father had bought it back at great expense—houses and all—and turned it back into an emerald sward of grass. The cool water of the Long Island Sound lapped against a neat pebble beach about three hundred feet from the house.

Sinclair laughed. “Yes. The old homestead has matured into an excellent investment.”

“What I don’t understand is … how do you break up a cup?” It seemed hard enough to find a whole cup in this mess, let alone a piece of one.

“My mother says it was specially constructed to be taken apart and then put back together. She suspects it’s an old communion chalice that was constructed like that so it could be hidden, maybe from Viking invaders or Protestant reformers, depending on how old it really is. The story of the cup has passed down from generation to generation, though no one knows what happened to the pieces. My mom says she’s tracked down the descendants of the three brothers, and contacted each of them about her quest.”

“I think it’s exciting. And a nice opportunity to reunite the family.”

Sinclair shrugged. “I’ve never heard much good about the other Drummonds. We’re all surly sorts who keep to ourselves.” He raised a dark brow.

“You’re not surly.” She immediately regretted her pointless comment. The last thing she needed was for him to know she was smitten with him. “Well, not all the time, anyway.” Now she was blushing. She hurried to a darker corner of the attic and pulled at a drawer. “Where do the others live?”

“One brother became a privateer raiding the East Coast and the Caribbean.”

“A pirate?”

Sinclair nodded. “So the legend goes. His ancestors are still down there—or one of them, anyway—living on an island off the Florida coast. Since Jack Drummond’s a professional treasure hunter I hardly think he’ll help us find the cup.”

“He might be interested in the family angle.”

“I doubt it. The third Drummond brother got rich up in Canada, then went back to Scotland and bought back the family estate. His descendant lives there now. My mother hasn’t been able to even get James Drummond to reply to her emails. She’s tireless, however, so I’m sure she’ll get through to him eventually, once she has her strength back.” He lifted a box down from the top of an old armoire. “There aren’t a lot of Drummond descendants out there. They don’t seem to have had many children and a lot have died young over the years. Makes you wonder if the curse is real.”

Was Sinclair cursed? If anything, he seemed to live a charmed life, dividing his time between his Manhattan penthouse and his other fabulous houses. She saw him for only a few weekends of each year, and maybe a couple of weeks in the summer. Just enough time to gaze dreamily at him but not enough to know his secrets. Did he have secrets? Passions and longings?

She tried to shake the thought from her mind. His inner life was none of her business.

“Some of this stuff really shouldn’t be moldering away up here.” Annie lifted a porcelain serving platter from its perch underneath another coil of rope. “I bet you could take this on Antiques Roadshow.”

Sinclair chuckled. “And have them tell you someone bought it at Woolworth’s in the 1950s.” He stood over a big wood trunk, larger and obviously older than the steamer trunks piled high in several places. The inside appeared to be filled with folded clothing.

“Wow, look at that lace.” Annie moved beside him, trying to ignore his rich masculine scent. She reached into the trunk and fondled the snowy cotton. “It doesn’t look like it’s ever been worn.” She lifted the garment, which unfolded in a single soft movement, revealing itself as a delicate nightgown or petticoat. “Who did this belong to?”

“I have no idea. I confess to only ever rifling through the boxes with firearms and other guy stuff in them.” Again his mischievous grin made her heart quicken. “I never touched the girlie stuff.”

“Would you look at that.” Setting the petticoat aside, she peered into the large wooden chest to examine a richly worked bodice of green satin with red-and-gold edging. The needlework was exquisite and the material shone as if it had been woven yesterday. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Sinclair pulled the garment from the trunk and held it up. Low-cut at the neck and with a tiny waist, the dress was an extravagant ball gown.

“It’s stunning. And that blue one underneath it looks spectacular.” She reached in and fondled a striking peacock-blue silk garment with tiny pearl bead accents. “These should be in a museum.” It seemed a crime to leave them unseen in the dusty attic even a minute longer. “Let’s bring them down into the house and hang them properly.”

“If you like.” Sinclair looked skeptical. Of course he probably only cared about finding the cup. “Sure, let’s do it.”

Had her face betrayed her disappointment so readily? His sudden change of heart touched her. She smiled. “Great! I’ll carry as many as I can.”

Sinclair strode down the narrow, rickety stairs without a moment’s hesitation, despite his arms being filled with clothes. Annie teetered behind him, the heavy garments weighing her down and making her worry about missing her footing. “We can put them in the big wardrobes in the yellow bedroom. They’re empty since your mom gave away those old fur coats.”

She followed Sinclair back into the house and they laid the garments on the wide double bed. “I can’t believe how beautiful this gray silk dress is. How on earth did they weave the silver and blue into the fabric?”

“Probably took someone years. Things were done differently back then. Each item was a handmade work of art.”

“I suppose ordinary people never even touched anything like this.” She fingered the delicate fabric with its intricate ribbon detailing. “Unless they were helping madam fasten her corset, of course.” That’s what she would have been doing back then. Hey, she was still more or less doing it now, in a time when most women her age sat in plastic cubicles talking on the phone all day. She let her fingers roam inside the deep pleats at the waist and sighed. “What a stunning dress. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Why don’t you try it on?” Sinclair’s deep voice surprised her. She’d almost forgotten he was there.

“Me? I couldn’t possibly. They’re museum pieces, and my waist isn’t nearly that small.”

“I disagree. About your waist, that is.” His eyes settled on her waistband for a moment, making her stomach clench. Had her boss ever glanced at her waist before? She didn’t think so.

Her heart pounded with excitement at the prospect of trying a dress on. Of course she could always wait until she was all alone in the house. But then someone would notice it had been worn, and she’d look foolish. What if this was her only chance? “Well …” She plucked gently at the peacock-blue evening gown. “I still don’t think they’ll fit, but …”

“That settles it. I’ll discreetly turn away until you need help with the fastenings.” He strolled to a tall arched window on the far side of the room.

Annie’s heart quickened. She had an odd sense that a line between them was about to be crossed. Sinclair wanted her to try on the dresses. What did that mean?

Nothing, silly. He thinks it would be fun for you and he’s humoring you. Don’t get carried away. Really. This was foolish. She’d end up ripping a seam. “I’m sure they’re supposed to be worn with all sorts of elaborate corsetry and I don’t think—”

“Do you want to go back up and hunt for the cup?” He lifted a dark brow.

She hesitated, her fingertips still pressed against the rich fabric. A tiny smile tugged at her lips. “Maybe just one dress.”

Sinclair nodded, a smile in his eyes, and turned away.

How sweet of him to let her try on a family heirloom. But which one? Without hesitation, she chose the rich peacock-blue. She held it against herself for a moment—the length was about right—and though the waist was narrow, it wasn’t quite as tiny as she’d first thought. Maybe it would fit, after all.

She resisted the urge to turn and check on Sinclair as she unbuttoned her Oxford shirt. She knew him too well to imagine even for a second that he’d be sneaking a peek. He had women falling all over him wherever he went, and barely seemed to notice them.

She lowered her khakis and stepped into the crisp blue fabric. It was creased from being folded and smelled slightly of camphor, but otherwise looked fresh as if it were sewn yesterday. The tiny pearl beads tickled her arms as she pushed them into the short, puffed sleeves. The low-cut neck revealed a broad expanse of her white Cross Your Heart bra, so she quickly undid the bra and slipped it off through a sleeve. She had done up nearly half the tiny, fabric-covered buttons by the time Sinclair asked if she needed help.

“Just a few hundred more buttons.” She smiled, already feeling like a princess in the luxurious gown. It fell to the floor and gathered there slightly, suggesting she should wear heels.

“Wow.” Sinclair had turned and stood, staring at her. “Annie, you look spectacular.” His eyes widened slightly as he surveyed her, slowly, from head to toe. “Like a different person.” He crossed the room and fastened the last few buttons. “As I suspected, it fits.”

“Odd, isn’t it?” She fought the urge to giggle like a little girl playing dress-up. It didn’t help that Sinclair’s fingers were so near her skin that she felt giddy. “But why would we think people had different bodies two hundred years ago? They weren’t so different from us.”

“No, they weren’t.” Sinclair’s voice was lower than usual. Done with the buttons, he moved in front of her again. His gaze rose over her neck and cheek, and she self-consciously tucked away a loose curl that had escaped her bun.

He frowned slightly. “You look pretty with your hair up.”

“I always wear my hair up.” She reached self-consciously for her bun.

“Do you? I don’t know why I didn’t notice it before.” His gaze heated her skin.

“It’s the dress.”

“Maybe it is. You hide under your clothes and conceal the fact that you have a beautiful figure.”

Her breasts swelled inside the fitted bodice. The cut of the dress acted as a bra, lifting things front and center. “Funny, I’m not sure I’ve ever had cleavage before.” She tried to laugh, to hide her shock at her own bold statement, but the sound withered under Sinclair’s stern regard.

“It suits you,” he said gruffly. “You should dress up more often.”

“I don’t really get the chance.” She glanced across the room where she could see a partial reflection in the mirror on the large wardrobe. She looked imposing in the long dress, and the dramatic blue brought out red-gold highlights in her hair. Sinclair’s tall form blocked one half of the view, his broad shoulders concealing the cleavage he admired. From this angle they almost looked like a couple, the distance between them foreshortened as if they were pressed together.

Like that could ever happen.

She attempted another carefree laugh, and again it vanished in the air, which suddenly felt hot and oppressive. Sinclair’s frown deepened, and she shivered under his fierce stare. Words failed her as their gazes locked for a second, two seconds, three …

Sinclair’s lips met hers with sudden force as his arms gathered her close. She melted, her mouth welcoming his and kissing him back with six years of unspent passion.

His kiss was intoxicating as strong liquor. Annie’s legs wobbled and she clung to him as their tongues wound together. Her nipples thickened against the luxurious silk.

His scent was subtle, masculine and inviting. She’d never been this close to him before. His skin looked smooth, but now she could feel the roughness of his cheek as he nuzzled her. His fingers wound into her hair, loosing her bun, and a rough groan escaped his mouth.

A coil of lust unwound inside her. His desire, his need, was palpable. She could sense it vibrating in his thick muscles and heating his tanned skin. His breath grew hot on her cheek, further stirring the passion unfolding in her belly.

What are we doing?

The thought seemed very far away, as if someone else was thinking it. Her fingers climbed into his thick, dark hair. It was silky to the touch. She could feel his hands sinking lower, to cup her buttocks, and she arched against him as he squeezed her. His breath came hard and heavy, giving their kisses an air of fevered desperation.

I’m kissing Sinclair. The thought flashed in her brain like a power surge. But instead of setting off alarms of warning, it sent ripples of excitement dancing to her fingers and toes. How many nights had she lain awake imagining this moment?