Fairy Tale Weddings (5 page)

The phone rang, and he jerked the receiver off its cradle. “Prince here.”

“This is Jeff Wells from HR.”

“Yes?”

“Sir—” he paused and cleared his throat “—I've checked all our records and I can't find anyone named Cindy or Cynthia employed on the executive floor.”

“Then look again,” Thorne said urgently.

“Sir, I've checked the files three times.”

“Then please do so again.” Thorne hung up the phone. He wondered grimly if he'd have to go down there and locate Cindy's name himself.

A half hour later, Thorne had to agree with Wells. There wasn't a secretary or assistant in the entire company named
Cindy. Thorne slammed the filing-cabinet drawer shut with unnecessary force.

“Who was in charge of the Christmas Ball?” he demanded.

Jeffrey Wells, a diminutive man who wore a bow tie and glasses, bowed his head. “I was, Mr. Prince.”

“The ball was by invitation only. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir, I received my instructions from—”

“I want the list.”

“The list?” He pulled out a file and handed Thorne several sheets of paper. “The name of every employee who received an invitation is here, except one, and—”

“Who?” Thorne whirled around to face the other man.

“Me,” Wells said in a startled voice.

Thorne scanned the list, then again more slowly, carefully examining each name. No Cindy.

“How many extra invitations were sent to outside guests?”

“A dozen—I have the list here.” Wells pulled a sheet of paper from the file and Thorne took it and counted the names. Exactly twelve. But again, no Cindy.

“Sir…perhaps this Cindy crashed the party…. There are ways,” he stammered. “The hotel staff do all they can to assure that only those with an invitation are granted admission, but…it's been known to happen.”

“Crashed the ball…” Thorne repeated, stunned. He rubbed a hand over his face. That was what had happened. The instant he heard Wells say it, he'd recognized the truth. “Thank you for your trouble, Mr. Wells.”

“It was no problem, Mr. Prince. Perhaps if you could describe the girl, I could go through our files and locate pictures. Perhaps she's employed by Oakes-Jenning, but was assuming another name.”

Thorne shook his head. “That won't be necessary.” He turned and left the office, reaching his own without remembering how he got there.

Ms. Hillard stood when he entered the room, her hands filled with the mail. Thorne gave her a look that told her he'd deal with his correspondence later, and she sat down again.

For two days he'd been living in a dreamworld, acting like an idiotic, romantic fool. The joy drained out of him and was replaced by a grim determination not to allow such folly to overtake him a second time. He'd put Cindy out of his mind and his heart as easily as he'd instilled her there. She was a fraud who'd taken delight in duping him. Well, her plans had worked beyond her expectations. He slumped into his chair and turned to look at the sky. Ms. Hillard was right. The weather was terrible, but then so was the day.

T
horne's violent sneeze tore the tissue in half. He reached for another in the nick of time. His eyes were running, he was so congested he could barely breathe and he had a fever. He felt thoroughly miserable, and it wasn't
all
due to this wretched cold. He'd gotten it the night he'd given Cindy his coat. Cindy. Despite his resolve, she haunted his dreams and filled his every waking thought. He wanted to hate her, shout at her and…and take her in his arms and hold her. There were moments he despised her, and then there were other times, usually late at night, when he'd welcome the memories. That was when she came to him, in those quiet hours. He'd be on the ballroom floor with her in his arms; a second later he'd recall with vivid clarity the agony in her eyes as she tearfully told him goodbye. When she told him how sorry she was, the words seemed to echo over and over in his mind.

Thorne picked up the pearl comb and fingered it for the thousandth time in the past five days. He'd kept it with him constantly, seeking some clue from it, some solace. He
found neither. He'd taken it to a jeweler and learned it was a fairly inexpensive comb that was perhaps twenty-five years old—certainly of little value beyond the sentimental. Too bad she hadn't left a glass slipper behind like the real Cinderella. Then he could take it around the executive floor and try it on women's feet to see if it would fit. Instead, his Cinderella had left him something useless. He couldn't trace her with a common pearl comb.

Other than that, Thorne had nothing with which to find Cindy. The crazy part was that he wasn't completely sure he
wanted
to see her again. She'd lied to him, played him for a fool and mercilessly shattered his dreams—serious crimes for a woman he'd known less than five hours—and yet he couldn't stop thinking about her. Every minute. Every day. He wanted to cast her from his mind; then and only then could he finally escape her.

Thorne's thoughts were followed by another thunderous sneeze. He pressed the intercom button and summoned Ms. Hillard. “Did you get that orange juice?” he asked.

“It's on its way,” she informed him.

“Thank you.” Thorne pulled open the top desk drawer and grabbed the aspirin bottle. He felt miserable, in body
and
spirit.

 

Cindy inhaled a deep breath and forced herself to enter Thorne's office. It was torture to be inside the room where he spent so much of his time. She could feel his presence so strongly that she kept looking over her shoulder, convinced he was there, standing behind her. She wondered what he'd say to her—if he hated her or if he even thought about her—then decided she'd rather not know. Her heart was weighed down with regrets.

Pushing Thorne out of her mind, she ran the feather duster over his desk. Something small and white fell onto the carpet. Cindy bent over and picked it up. A pearl. She held it in the palm of her hand and stared at it. Thorne had her mother's missing comb! Cindy had thought it was lost to her forever. Not until she was home did she realize one of them had fallen from her hair, and she'd been devastated over its loss. She had so few of her mother's personal possessions that losing even one was monumental.

“What's that?” Vanessa asked, standing in the open doorway, her feather duster in her hip pocket.

Cindy's hand closed over the pearl. Knowing that Thorne had the comb gave her an oddly secure feeling. “A pearl,” she said, tucking it inside the pocket of her coveralls.

Vanessa studied her closely. “Do you think it might be from your mother's comb?”

“I'm sure it is.”

“Then your prince must have it.”

Cindy nodded, comforted immeasurably by this fact.

“How do you plan to get it back?”

“I don't,” Cindy said. She continued dusting, praying Vanessa would return to her own tasks.

“You aren't going to get it from him? That's crazy. You were sick about losing that comb.”

“I know.”

“Well, good grief, Cindy, here's the perfect opportunity for you to see your prince again. Grab it, for heaven's sake!”

Cindy's mouth quivered. “I don't want to see him again.”

“You might be able to fool your family, but you won't have such an easy time with me.” Vanessa's expression was grim and her eyes revealed her disapproval. “You told me the ball was the happiest, most exciting night of your life.”

Cindy's back stiffened. The warm, fairy-tale sensations the ball had aroused were supposed to last a lifetime, and instead the evening had left her yearning for many, many more. “The night was everything I dreamed, but don't you see? I was playing a role…I was glamorous and sophisticated and someone totally different from the Cindy you see now. The show closed, the part's cancelled and I've gone back to being just plain me—Cindy Territo, janitorial worker, part-time student.”

“And Cindy Territo, woman in love.”

“Stop it, Vanessa!” she cried and whirled around to face her friend. “Adults don't fall in love after one night. Not true love—it just doesn't happen!”

Vanessa crossed her arms and leaned against the side of Thorne's rosewood desk. “That's not what I hear.”

Cindy snorted softly. “What you're talking about isn't love…it's infatuation. It wasn't like that with Thorne and me. I don't think I can explain or define it—I've never felt anything like this with any other man.”

“And yet you're convinced it can't be love?” Vanessa taunted.

“It's impossible,” she insisted, although she didn't believe it. “I don't want to talk about him or that night again. I—we have to put it out of our minds.” She reached for Thorne's wastebasket and unceremoniously emptied it inside her cart. When she saw the contents her eyes widened. “Vanessa, look.” She picked up a discarded aspirin box and another for a cold remedy. “Thorne's sick.”

“He must've gone through a whole box of tissues.”

“Oh, no.” Cindy sagged into his chair, lovingly stroking the arm as though it were his fevered brow. She longed to be with him. “The night of the ball,” she began, her voice
strained with regret, “when we went into the park, he gave me his coat so I wouldn't catch cold.”

“At a price, it seems.”

Cindy's face went pale, and she gazed distractedly at her friend before turning her head and closing her eyes. “It's all my fault. Christmas is only a few days away…. Oh, dear, I did this to him.”

“What do you plan to do about it?”

“What can I do?” If Cindy was miserable before, it was nothing compared to the guilt she suffered now, knowing her prince was ill because of her. He'd grown chilled, which had made him vulnerable to the viruses so abundant this time of year.

“Make some chicken soup and take it to him,” Vanessa suggested.

Cindy's eyes widened. “I couldn't.”

“This is the same woman who sauntered up to Thorndike Prince and announced he was a disappointment to her?”

“One and the same,” Cindy muttered.

Vanessa shook her head. “You could've fooled me.”

If anybody was a fool, Cindy determined the following afternoon, she was the one. She'd spent the morning chopping vegetables into precise, even pieces and adding them to a steaming pot of chicken broth and stewing chicken while her aunt made a batch of homemade noodles.

“Maybe I should have Tony deliver it for me,” Cindy said, eyeing her aunt speculatively.

“Tony and Maria are going to a movie, and you can bet that your prince isn't going to hand over that comb to my son without getting information out of him.” The way she
was regarding Cindy implied that Thorne would use fair means or foul to find out whatever he could.

“Thorne wouldn't hurt anyone.” Cindy defended him righteously, and from the smile that lit up the older woman's face, Cindy realized she'd fallen neatly into her aunt's trap.

“Then you shouldn't have any qualms about visiting him. It's not Tony or anyone else he wants to see—it's you.”

Cindy raised questioning eyes to her. “I'm not convinced he does want to see me.”

“He kept the comb, didn't he?”

“Yes, but that doesn't mean anything.”

“No man is going to carry around a woman's hair ornament without a reason.”

“Oh, Aunt Theresa, I feel like such an idiot. What if he hates me? What if—”

“Will you stop with the
what ifs!
The soup's finished. Take it to him and go from there.”

“But…” She strove to keep the emotion from her voice. But she couldn't hide her nervousness. If she saw Thorne today, there'd be no fancy gown or dimmed lights to create an illusion of beauty and worldliness. No moonlight and magic to entice him. Her plaid wool skirt, hand-knit sweater and leather pumps would tell him everything.

Theresa caught her by the shoulders. “Stop being so nervous! It's not like you.”

Cindy smiled weakly. She'd go to him because she had to. Her actions were mapped out in her mind. She'd already looked up his address. She'd arrive at his apartment, present him with the soup and tell him how sorry she was that he'd gotten a cold. Then, depending on how he re
sponded, she'd ask for her mother's comb. But only if he showed signs of being pleased to see her. Somehow she doubted he would.

 

The television droned in the background, but Thorne couldn't manage any interest in the silly game shows that ran one after the other. They, however, were only slightly less boring than the soap operas and talk shows on the other channels. He felt hot, then chilled. Sick and uncomfortable. Sleepy from the medication and yet wide-awake. It was only three days until Christmas and he had all the love and goodwill of an ill-tempered, cantankerous grinch.

The small tree in the corner of his living room was testament to his own folly. He'd enthusiastically put it up the day after meeting Cindy, and now it sat there taunting him, reminding him what a fool he was to believe in romantic dreams. In three days' time he'd be obligated to show up at his parents' home and face them—and Sheila. The thought was not pleasant. All he wanted to do was hide in his condo and insist the world leave him alone.

He sighed and reached for a glass of grapefruit juice and another cold tablet. Discarded cold remedies crowded his glass coffee table. He'd taken one pillow plus the quilt from his bed, trying to get comfortable in the living room.

The doorbell chimed and he ignored it.

Seemingly undaunted, the bell rang a second time. “Go away,” he shouted rudely. The last thing he wanted was company.

The ring was followed by loud knocking.

Furious, he shoved his quilt aside and stormed to the front door. He jerked it open and glared angrily at the young woman who stood before him. “I said go away!” he
shouted, in no mood to be civil. “I don't want any…” His voice faded to a croak. “Cindy?” He was too shocked to do anything, even breathe. The first thing that came to mind was to haul her into his arms and not let her leave until she told him who she was. But that impulse was immediately followed by an all-consuming anger. He glared at her with contempt.

Cindy stood there, unable to move or to manage a coherent word. A rush of color heated her face. This was a hundred times worse than she'd imagined. Thorne hated her. Dismayed and disheartened, she handed him the large paper sack. “I…heard you were sick.”

“What's this?”

“Chicken soup.”

Thorne's eyes lit up with sardonic amusement. She resembled a frightened rabbit standing in front of a hungry wolf. He wondered how anyone could look so innocent and completely guileless when he knew her to be a liar and a cheat. “You might as well come in,” he said gruffly, stepping aside.

“I can only stay a minute,” she said shakily.

“I wouldn't dream of inviting you to stay longer,” he answered, willfully cruel. He was rewarded when he saw the color drain from her face. Good. He wanted her to experience just a taste of the hell she'd put him through.

She caught her breath and nodded, saying without words that she understood.

He set the soup on the coffee table and slumped onto the white leather sofa. “I won't apologize for the mess, but as you've heard, I haven't been feeling well.” He motioned toward the matching chair across from him. “I know what you want.”

Surprise widened her deep blue eyes. “You do?”

“It's the comb, isn't it?”

Cindy nodded and sat on the edge of the cushion, folding her hands primly in her lap. She clasped her fingers tightly together. “It was my mother's…You have it?”

“Yes.”

She sighed with relief. “I thought I'd lost it.”

“You knew very well that I had it.”

Cindy opened her mouth to argue with him but quickly closed it. He couldn't believe anything but the worst, and she couldn't blame him.