Cinderella Christmas Read online

  Or the way the shoe guy had looked at her when she'd been practically drooling over those shoes.

  Pitiful.

  Nobody seemed to see that there was a real woman under all the custodial garb. That the entire sum of Brooke Anne Kressler's interests did not consist of cleaning bathrooms and constructing thousand-piece puzzles.

  There was a completely feminine part of her that liked pretty dresses and fancy dinners.

  She'd actually read an Emily Post book just to know how to reply to a formal invitation to tea, in case she ever received one.

  She liked dancing and putting on makeup. It wasn't her fault that she never did any of those things. Life just got in the way of her dreams, that was all. It wasn't possible to spend money on silk dresses when your company needed to hire another employee. It was hard to date when you were cleaning office buildings at night. And impossible to vacuum in gold sandals, even if they would make her feel ten feet tall.

  After setting the sparkling-clean cups on the counter to dry, Brooke Anne pushed in the chairs and was just about to turn off the light when Mr. Suit appeared in the doorway.

  "Um, may I talk to you for a moment?"

  She glanced at him again. Noticed that he was taller than she'd thought, and built almost like a swimmer, with broad shoulders and narrow hips. Then firmly tapped down any more observations that were about to spring up. She had nothing in common with him - absolutely nothing. "Miss?"

  She met his gaze. Realized she was keeping him standing there, waiting. "Yes? Did you need something cleaned in your office?"

  "No," he said, shaking his head. "I just wanted to make sure I didn't offend you or anything when you said you could rhumba."

  "Not at all," she answered, wondering why he'd even care.

  He looked relieved. "Listen, um, I'm...my name is Morgan Carmichael."

  She nodded. "Nice to meet you."

  "Do you have a moment to sit down?"

  They sat at the table she'd just wiped. Mr. Morgan Carmichael rested his elbows on the surface, then pulled them away when he found it was still damp. Brooke Anne kept her hands in her lap.

  "I know this party must sound pretty dumb to someone like you..."

  Her eyes widened. Someone like her? Lord.

  He continued. "But, hey, I've got to go to this thing. You don't know me from the average guy on the street, but I'm trustworthy and usually pretty easy to be around."

  What was he getting at? Brooke Anne nodded at him, waiting for him to go on.

  "So, would you consider going to this party with me?"

  "As your date?"

  "Well, more like a paid escort." He nodded, as if he liked that description. "Look - I'd pay you for your time," he replied hurriedly. "Christmas will be here soon. Maybe the extra cash would come in handy."

  The "someone like her" comment still stung; she couldn't deny it. And the "extra-cash" aside wasn't flattering, either. She might be in need of extra cash, but she wasn't in danger of visiting a bread line.

  Did she really want to be in this guy's company ever again? No. "Sorry, but I don't think so."

  He looked wounded. "I'd pay you well."

  "It's not the money, believe it or not."

  He stared hard at her, as if he was trying to read her mind. "Is it me? Yeah, I bet it is," he said, with a wry expression. "You don't know a thing about me, do you?"

  Brooke Anne held up her hand to stop him. He might be attractive, but there was nothing about him that she was interested in knowing.

  But he didn't even glance in her direction. "I've been working for Royal Hotels for three years now. I'm the product purchasing manager. My team and I are in charge of a majority of the purchases that are made for the hotel chain."

  He seemed so proud of his job. Proud enough to make her grimace.

  "I wasn't aware there were jobs like that."

  But her cool tone didn't seem to bother him in the slightest. "Wait, there's more about me that you need to know." He paused for a breath. "I graduated from the University of Texas with my bachelor's and then got my MBA here in Cincinnati. I have one sister, who also happens to live here. My parents live in Dallas, now."

  This was way more about Mr. Carmichael than she wanted to know. And none of it inspired her to get to know him better. Brooke Anne leaned forward. "Listen, it's not -"

  He cut her off again, and began speaking quickly. "Most people think of me as a decent kind of guy. I work hard, play racquetball three times a week and even make it to church most Sundays."

  Oh, that church comment. She was softening; she could feel it. She had to talk fast. "Mr. Carmichael, I'm sure you're very nice, but I don't think we'd suit each other."

  He met her eyes. "It's Morgan. And we don't need to suit each other. It would only be for one night. I can get along with anyone for five hours." He reddened, no doubt realizing how his words must have sounded out loud. "Scratch that. What I'm saying is that I'm desperate, you can dance and the evening wouldn't be a total waste of your time - oh, I forgot to mention I had a beagle growing up and I'm addicted to puzzles."

  Maybe it was his remarkable looks that piqued her interest, or the sincerity of his grayish-green eyes. Maybe it was the dog, or his admitting that he liked puzzles, too. She felt herself waffling.

  "I'm sorry, sir, but--"

  "It's Morgan. And I am a nice guy. Even though I didn't sound that way with Sheri. She just frustrates the heck out of me." He cocked his head and stared at Brooke Anne. "Have you ever felt like that with someone? Attracted to them, but really frustrated?"

  Russell came to mind. Russell, who'd managed to make her the laughingstock of Nebraska in two swift moves. "Oh, yeah. I've felt that way before. It's a pretty awful feeling."

  The man's expression softened with her understanding. "Then maybe you know what I mean? About being in a bind?"

  Brooke Anne wasn't sure what led her to nod, but she did. She knew all about obligations and wishes. And lost dreams. Against her better judgment, she found herself saying, "All right, Morgan, I'll be your date."

  A look of complete relief swept across his face. "Thanks a lot. I promise you won't regret this,"

  She already did, though she couldn't say why. "So this is a formal affair?"

  The dimple appeared again. "Yeah, it is." He shifted and pulled out a thin, dark-brown wallet, then grabbed three one-hundred-dollar bills from its folds. "Here. This is for you to get a dress for the dance."

  "No, I couldn't accept."

  "You've got to. After all, you're doing this as a favor to me. You'll need it to buy a gown." He paused for a moment, glanced at her feet and pulled out another pair of hundreds. "Here. You'll need shoes, too."

  Shoes? She took the money without hesitation. The bills felt crisp and unfamiliar in her hand. She gripped the money a little harder. "Thanks."

  "And does five hundred dollars sound fair to pay you for the night?"

  She just about choked. "Another five hundred?"

  "You know, as your fee for putting up with me for the evening?"

  Five hundred for a dress and shoes? Five hundred to put up with him for a night? She cleared her throat. "I think I can work this arrangement."

  "Great. I'll pay you Saturday night."

  "That will be fine."

  He eyed her hair, then, and Brooke Anne instinctively knew he was wondering if she could style it any differently. "I'll do my hair and makeup, too, Morgan." When he looked doubtful, she added, "I had practice doing it when I took dance lessons in high school."

  "Oh, great. That's great."

  She nodded. "What time?"

  "How about seven? There are cocktails from seven until eight, then the dinner starts. Dancing is later. Where shall I pick you up?"

  "Don't. I'll just meet you there."

  He looked worried. "It would probably be easier if I picked you up," he protested.

  "I'd feel better meeting you there. And if for some reason I don't show, at least you'll be there."


  He looked startled by her lame attempt at humor. "Yeah, but..."

  "I promise I'll show. Where is this dance?"

  "The Willowbrook Room of the Excelsior Royal Hotel"

  Well, well. The Willowbrook Room was an especially swanky club on the penthouse level of the hotel. It was a place she'd only seen pictures of in the society pages. She tried hard to act blase. "Excellent. I'll see you then."

  They stood up, Morgan eyeing her carefully. "You sure you can dance?"

  She did a little pirouette and smiled. "I can."

  "All right, see you then."

  "Saturday. Seven p.m. Willowbrook Room."

  Morgan stepped out the door, then popped back in, a horrified expression on his face. "I don't even know your name."

  "It's Brooke Anne."

  "That's a pretty name. Bye, Brooke. Thanks again."

  Brooke Anne chuckled to herself. People always mistook Anne to be her last name. Oh, well, no harm done. She'd answered to just plain Brooke plenty of times...and it wasn't like he'd ever need to know her last name, anyway.

  With that, she turned off the kitchen light and sauntered down the hall. The Royal Hotels' corporate offices were clean, the hour was late and she had her very own ball to get ready for.

  *****

  Chapter Three

  Okay. What did a girl do with five hundred dollars in cash, a dress and shoes to buy, a heavy mass of hair to fix and a ball to attend in just over twenty-four hours?

  Eat toast and pray, Brooke Anne thought wryly, as she scanned the latest issue of Town & Country Magazine one more time. She'd bought it on impulse when she was going home last night, thinking it might give her some insight into the latest fashions for society ladies.

  If Town & Country was to be her guide, it looked as though cool blondes, statuesque redheads and old money were in style. Not to mention designer handbags and trinkets from Fifth Avenue shops. At the moment, she only owned mop-adorned sweatshirts, fashion jewelry and an assortment of T-shirts from restaurants in town. None of that was going to cut it.

  Since she'd be living the Town & Country life, at least for a few hours, Brooke Anne knew there was only one thing to do - seek professional help. And that source would be in the form of a rather austere-looking man in a well-fitted suit at the shoe store. No matter what, she was going to buy those shoes, even if they cost the whole amount that Morgan had given her. Those shoes were special. And maybe the salesman could help get the rest of her that way, too. He looked as if he had enough style and class for both of them.

  But when she walked into the shoe boutique two hours later, Brooke Anne began to seriously reconsider her decision. The store reeked of good taste and luxury. The smell of new leather and expensive cologne teased her nostrils. The temperature of the room was perfect-not too cool, and not too warm-which wasn't an easy achievement, since it seemed that in late November most Cincinnati stores blasted each customer with a burst of hot air.

  The wine-colored carpet was deep and plush, the kind that showed every single stray thread or speck. Yet it was immaculate and still carried the marks of fresh vacuuming. Brooke Anne briefly wondered how they managed to keep it looking like that.

  She ventured in farther, all too aware of how her own sneakers stood out among the beautiful sandals and designer pumps.

  But those feelings were quickly forgotten when she saw the gold sandals.

  "May I help you?" The same salesman who'd approached her the day before appeared by her side. His voice was curiously comforting, as if the question that he probably asked a hundred times a day was actually sincere.

  "Yes. please. I'm interested in this pair of sandals."

  His eyes flicked to her outfit of faded Levi's, black turtle-neck sweater and worn tennis shoes. "In size..."

  "Sorry. Size five, please. Narrow, if you have them."

  "Narrow, too?" As if he favored small feet, the corners of his lips turned up, stretching his thin face. "Very well, ma'am. If you'll have a seat?'"

  His immediate acquiescence was refreshing. Brooke Anne didn't know what she'd expected from the well-dressed gentleman, but she had a feeling that it had involved a surly look and a begrudging temperament. Taking his advice, she sank in to a tapestry-covered high-backed chair, removed her sneakers and waited.

  He returned within a minute, bearing two boxes of shoes and a packet of knee-high panty hose. "Here we are. I brought out two pairs, the size five mid five and a half. Let's see how these fit." He sat down across from her on a little leather stool, looking strangely prim and proper, for such a tall man positioned on such a small stool. He patted the slanted front of the bench. "If you would place your foot here, please, my dear."

  So this was what real shoe stores were like, Brooke Anne thought wryly as she removed her sock and placed her foot on the indicated spot. Buying shoes here was equivalent to the difference between traveling first class and economy on an airplane. In spite of herself, she was prepared to enjoy every minute of the experience.

  "If I'm not mistaken, you were visiting our store last night."

  His words, so clipped and formal, played against a faint Southern accent nicely. Brooke Anne wondered where he was originally from. Virginia? Tennessee? London? It was hard to tell.

  She glanced at the man's discreet name tag, a slim gold bar with Warren written in script across it. "Yes, although yesterday I was just looking through the window."

  "I'm glad you came back," he replied, in such a way that her presence sounded like a favor. He passed her a smoothly folded knee-high sock, and carefully, she pulled it on.

  "Me, too," she said.

  He opened the shoe box with no small amount of flair and eyed her carefully, his light blue eyes taking in each wrinkle of her sweater. "You must be going somewhere very special."

  Brooke Anne couldn't even answer at first, she was so spellbound by the pair of shoes waiting in their box, ready to be tried on. "Yes, yes I am," she stammered. "I'm going to a ball."

  "A ball? How interesting."

  He picked up a sandal, lowered it to her foot and gently slipped it on. The leather felt cool and firm. Her foot arched automatically to conform to the high slope. Brooke Anne bit her lip to hold back a sigh.

  After he buckled the strap around her ankle, he helped her move her foot to the floor. "Stand up, please. Let's take a look, shall we?"

  She did as he asked and found she couldn't hold the sigh in any longer. "It fits."

  "Yes, indeed it does," he said with a nod. "I thought it would. You definitely are a size five, narrow. One doesn't see too many of those." He glanced at her again, as if he was about to say something but decided against it. "Well now, let's put the other one on."

  Wearing both sandals now, Brooke Anne stepped lightly across the room, loving the feel of the thin straps holding on the delicate shoes. Enjoying the sensation of being four inches taller. Unable to stop herself, she spontaneously did a little twirl.

  Warren stood to the side, a pleased expression playing across his features, as if he truly delighted in someone appreciating his wares. "What are you wearing tonight, if you don't mind my asking?"

  Reality came crashing back. "I'm not sure."

  "Pardon me?"

  "I've got to go find a dress."

  Thin, precisely-groomed eyebrows clicked together. "Most people do things in the reverse order, if I may say so."

  "Not this girl. I've been in love with these shoes ever since I spotted them in the window three weeks ago."

  He nodded understandingly. "I know exactly what you mean. They are perfect party shoes. They will make any outfit." He paused. "You're leaving it a little late. You've delayed your shopping trip a tad too long, don't you think?"

  For some reason, it was easy to talk to Warren. "Not really. I was just invited last night. I'm the guy's replacement date."

  "I've never heard of such a thing." Warren's mouth pursed, "doesn't say much for your gentleman friend."

  "Oh, he's no friend, it's busines
s."

  "Business?" She had to smile; Warren looked completely taken aback. "It's for a company Christmas party. The guy who asked me - Morgan? He needed someone who knew how to waltz. I, his cleaning lady, fit the bill."

  "How fortunate for him," Warren said dryly.

  Brooke Anne laughed. "It's not as bad as it sounds."

  "Well, it doesn't sound particularly good." Warren was right, she supposed, but there was no time for regrets.

  "I've got a bit of a dilemma. I only have a day to get myself ready for a ball." She glanced discreetly at the price of the shoes. One hundred and fifty dollars. Way more than she'd ever spent on a pair of shoes, but not as much as she'd feared! "And...I'm kind of on a budget."

  Warren's eyes shifted to the price tag. "Is that so, miss?"

  Now was not the time to cling to her pride. Lord knew she clung to that enough in all the other areas of her life. "Any idea what I should do next? I still need to buy a dress and some accessories."

  Warren ran a finger over the crease in his slacks, then fiddled with the neatly knotted paisley tie under his chin. "Exactly how much time do you have for your transformation?"

  "I need to be at the Willowbrook Room by seven on Saturday night."

  Warren sat down while she remained standing in front of. him. "Hmm" he murmured.

  Perhaps more explanation was needed? "I have to go from jeans, flyaway hair and chipped nails to a high-class society-lady in one day." She laughed at her description. "Just call me a modern-day Cinderella!"

  Once again Warren studied her with those light, clear, speculative eyes. "That type of girl, my dear, is truly my favorite kind."

  "What you need is a plan. A plan of good taste," Warren stated cryptically.

  "What I need is an ivory-colored dress that doesn't cost too much."

  "Precisely how much are you planning to spend, my dear?"

  She did a quick mental calculation. "After the shoes, about $350."

  Warren eyed her again. "You need to go to Time Worn Treasures."

  "Time what?"

  "Time Worn Treasures. It's a resale shop."