Fairy Tale Weddings (7 page)

“Thorne.” His mother studied him, her expression puzzled. “It's not like you to snap.”

“I apologize,” he said with a weak smile. “I guess I've been a bit short-tempered lately.”

“You've been ill.” Sheila, with her dark brown eyes and pixie face, automatically defended him. She placed her hand in his and gave his fingers a gentle squeeze.

He liked Sheila well enough; she was unfailingly pleasant and loyal. One day she'd make some man an excellent wife. Maybe even him. Thorne was through playing Cindy's games. Through believing in fairy tales. He couldn't live like this. Cindy didn't want anything to do with him, and he had no choice but to accept her wishes. Sheila loved him—at least she claimed she did. Thorne didn't know what love felt like anymore. At one time he'd thought he was in love with Sheila. Maybe not
completely
, but he'd expected that to happen eventually. Then he'd met
Cindy, and he was head over heels in love for the first time in his thirty-three years. Crazy in love. And with a woman who'd turned her back on him and walked away without a second thought. It didn't make sense. Nothing did anymore. Nothing at all. Not business. Not life. Not women.

Thorne and Sheila had been seeing each other for nearly six months and she'd hardly been able to conceal her disappointment when an engagement ring hadn't been secretly tucked under the Christmas tree. But she hadn't questioned him. He wished she wasn't so understanding; he would've preferred it if she'd gotten angry, demanded an explanation.

Thorne noticed his mother still studying him and he made an attempt to disguise his unhappiness. Smiling required a monumental effort. He managed it, but he doubted he'd fooled his mother.

“Thorne, could you help me in the kitchen?”

The whole family turned to him. That was code for talking privately, and it wasn't the least bit original.

“Of course, Mother,” he said with the faintest sardonic inflection. He disentangled his fingers from Sheila's and stood, obediently following Gwendolyn Prince out of the room.

“What in heaven's name is the matter with you?” she snapped the minute they were out of earshot. “It isn't that…that girl you mentioned, is it?”

“What girl?” Feigning ignorance seemed the best response.

“You haven't been yourself…”

 

“…since the night of that Christmas Ball,” Aunt Theresa said softly.

“I know,” Cindy whispered. “You see, there's something I didn't realize…. Fairy tales don't always come true.”

“But, Cindy, you're so unhappy over him.”

“We said goodbye,” she said, her eyes pleading with her aunt to drop this disturbing subject. Accepting that she'd live without Thorne was difficult enough; discussing it with her aunt was like tearing open a half-healed wound.

“You haven't stopped thinking about him.”

“No, but I will.”

“Will you, Cindy?” Theresa's deep brown eyes showed her doubt.

Cindy's gaze pleaded with her. “Yes,” she said and the words were a vow to herself. She had no choice now. When she'd left Thorne's apartment it had been forever. Although the pain had been nearly unbearable, it was better to sever the ties quickly than to bleed slowly to death.

 

“Mother and I are planning a shopping expedition to Paris in March,” Sheila said enthusiastically, sitting across the table from Thorne.

They were at one of Thorne's favorite lunch spots. Sheila made it a habit to visit the office at least once a week so they could have lunch. In the past, Thorne had looked forward to their get-togethers. Not today. He wasn't in the mood. But before he'd been able to say anything to Ms. Hillard, she'd sent Sheila into his office, and now he was stuck.

“Paris sounds interesting.”

“So does the chicken,” Sheila commented, glancing over the menu. “I hear the mushroom sauce here is fabulous.”

Thorne's stomach turned. “Baked chicken breast served with mushroom sauce,” he read, remembering all too well
his last evening with Cindy and the meal she'd prepared for him.

“I hope you'll try it with me,” Sheila urged, gazing at him adoringly.

His mouth thinned. “I hate mushrooms.”

Sheila stared down at the menu and she pressed her lips tightly together. “I didn't know that,” she said after a long moment.

“You do now,” Thorne muttered, detesting himself for treating her this way. Sheila deserved better.

The waiter came to the table, hands behind his back. “Are you ready to order?”

“I believe so,” Thorne said, closing his menu and handing it back. “The lady will have the chicken special and I'll have a mushroom omelet.”

Sheila gave him an odd look, but said nothing.

During lunch Thorne made a sincere effort to be pleasant. He honestly tried to appear interested when Sheila told him about the latest fashion trends in France. He even managed to stifle a yawn when she hinted at the possibility of buying several yards of exclusive French lace. It wasn't until they'd left the restaurant and were walking toward his office that Thorne understood the implication. French lace—wedding gown.

Suddenly something caught his attention.

There. The blonde, half a block ahead of him.
Cindy
. It was Cindy.

“And I was thinking…”

Sheila's voice faded and Thorne quickened his pace.

“Thorne,” Sheila said breathlessly. “You're walking so fast I can't keep up with you.”

Without thought, he removed her hand from his arm. “Excuse me a minute.” He didn't take his eyes off Cindy, fearing he'd lose her in the heavy holiday crowds.

“Thorne?”

He ignored Sheila and took off running, weaving in and around the people filling the sidewalk on Sixth Avenue.

“Cindy!” He yelled her name, but either she didn't hear or she was trying to escape him. Again. He wouldn't let her. He'd found her now. Relief flowed through him and he savored the sweet taste of it. He'd dreamed this would happen. Somehow, some way, he'd miraculously stumble upon her. Every time he stepped outside, he found himself studying faces, looking. Searching for her in a silent quest that dominated his every waking thought. And now she was only a few feet away, her brisk pace no match for his easy sprint. Her shoulder-length blond hair swayed back and forth, and her navy wool coat was wrapped securely around her.

Thorne raced around two couples, cutting abruptly in front of them. He didn't know what he'd do first—kiss her or shake her. Kiss her, he decided.

“Cindy.” He finally caught up with her and put his hand on her shoulder.

“I beg your pardon.” The woman, maybe fifty, slapped his hand away. She didn't even resemble Cindy. She was older, plain, and embarrassed by his attention.

Thorne blinked back the disbelief. “I thought you were someone else.”

“Obviously. Mind your manners, young man, or I'll report you to the police.”

“I apologize.” He couldn't move. His feet felt rooted to
the sidewalk and his arms hung lifelessly at his sides. Cindy was driving him mad; he was slowly but surely losing his sanity.

“Decent women aren't safe in this city anymore,” the woman grumbled and quickly stepped away.

“Thorne! Thorne!” Sheila joined him, her hands gripping his arm. “Who was she?”

“No one.” He couldn't stop looking at the blonde as she made her way down the street. He would've sworn it was Cindy. He would've wagered a year's salary that the woman who couldn't escape him fast enough had been Cindy. His Cindy. His love.

“Thorne,” Sheila droned, patting his hand. “You've been working too hard. I'm worried about you.”

“I'm fine,” he said absently.

The pinched look returned to Sheila's face, but she didn't argue. “March gives you plenty of time to arrange a vacation. We'll enjoy Paris. I'll take you shopping with me and let you pick out my trousseau.”

“I'm not going to Paris,” he snapped.

Sheila continued to pat his hand. “I do wish you'd consider it. You haven't been yourself, Thorne. Not at all.”

He couldn't agree more.

Two hours later Thorne sat at his desk reading financial statements the accounting department had sent up for him to approve.

“Mr. Williams is here,” Ms. Hillard informed him.

Thorne closed the folder. “Send him in.”

“Right away,” Ms. Hillard returned crisply.

Thorne stood to greet the balding man who wore a suit that looked as if it hadn't been dry-cleaned since it came off the rack at Sears ten years before. His potbelly gave
credence to his reputation as the best private detective in the business; from the looks of it, he ate well enough.

“Mr. Williams,” Thorne said, extending his hand to the other man.

“Call me Mike.”

They exchanged brisk handshakes. The man's grip was solid. Thorne approved.

“What can I do for you?” Mike asked as he sat down.

“I want you to find someone for me,” Thorne said, without preamble.

Mike nodded. “It's what I do. What's the name?”

Thorne reclaimed his chair and his hands clutched the armrest as he leaned back, giving an impression of indifference. This wasn't going to be easy. “Cindy.”

“Last name?” The detective reached for his pencil and pad.

“I don't know.” He paused. “I'm not actually sure Cindy's her first name. It could've been made up.” Thorne was braced to accept anything where Cindy was concerned. Everything and anything.

“Where did you meet her?”

“At a party. The one put on by this company. She doesn't work here. I've already checked.”

Williams nodded.

“She did leave this behind.” Thorne leaned forward to hand the detective the comb. It was missing one pearl, he saw to his dismay. “I've had it appraised and the comb isn't uncommon. She has two, and she claims they belonged to her mother. There are no markings that would distinguish this one from ten thousand other identical combs.”

Again Williams nodded, but he examined the comb carefully. “Can I take this?” he asked and stuck it in his pocket.

Thorne agreed with a swift nod of his head. “I'll want it back.”

“Of course.”

They spoke for an additional fifteen minutes and Thorne recalled with as much clarity as possible each of the two meetings he'd had with Cindy.

Williams stopped him only once. “A limo, you said.”

“Yes.” Thorne slid forward in his chair. He'd forgotten that. Cindy had gotten into a limousine that first night when she'd escaped from him. She'd handed him his coat, run across the street and been met by a long black limousine.

“You wouldn't happen to remember the license plate, would you?”

“No.” Thorne shook his head disgustedly. “I'm afraid I can't.”

“Don't worry about it. I have enough.” Williams scanned the details he'd listed and flipped the pad shut. He got to his feet.

Thorne stood, too. “Can you find her?” he asked.

“I'll give it my best shot.”

“Good.” Thorne hoped the man couldn't see how desperate he'd become.

 

A cold northern wind chilled Cindy's arms as she waited on the sidewalk outside the Oakes-Jenning building. It was well past midnight. She was exhausted—physically and mentally. She hadn't been sleeping well and the paper she should be writing during the holiday break just wouldn't come, although she'd done all the research. It was because of Thorne. No matter what she did, she couldn't stop thinking about him.

Uncle Sal pulled to a stop at the curb. Cindy stepped away from the building and climbed into the front seat beside him.

“Hi,” she said, forcing a smile. Her family was worried about her and Cindy did her best to ease their fears.

“A private detective was poking around the house today,” her uncle announced, starting into the traffic.

Cindy felt her heart go cold. “What did he want?”

“He was asking about you.”

“A
sking about me…What did you tell him?”

“Not a thing.”

“But…”

“He wanted to look at my appointment schedule for December 12, but I wouldn't let him.”

The chilly sensation that had settled over Cindy dropped below freezing. Her uncle's refusal would only create suspicion. The detective would be back, and there'd be more questions Sal would refuse to answer. The detective wouldn't accept that, and he'd return again and again until he had the information he wanted. This stranger would make trouble for her family. In a hundred years, she never would've guessed that Thorne would go to such lengths to locate her. She had to find a way to stop him…a way to make him understand and leave things as they were.

Cindy went to bed still thinking about the whole mess and got up even more tired and troubled than she'd been before. She'd repeatedly examined her own role in this situation. Playing the part of Cinderella for one night had
seemed so innocent, so adventurous, so exciting. She'd slipped into the fantasy with ease, but the night had ended with the stroke of midnight and she could never go back to being a fairy-tale character again. She'd let go of the illusion and yes, it had been painful, but she'd had no choice. The consequences of that one foolhardy night would follow her for the rest of her life.

She'd never dreamed it would be possible to feel as strongly about a man in so short a time as she did about Thorne. But her emotion wasn't based on any of the usual prerequisites for love. It couldn't be. They'd only seen each other twice.

Thorne might believe he felt as strongly about her, Cindy realized, but that wasn't real either. She was a challenge—the mystery woman who'd briefly touched his life. Once he learned the truth and recognized that she'd made a fool of him, it would be over. Given no alternative, Cindy knew she'd have to tell Thorne who she really was.

“He could get me fired,” she said aloud several soul-searching hours later. Her hands clutched her purse protectively as she waited outside the Oakes-Jenning Financial Services building. Employees streamed out in a steady flow. Cindy stood against the side of the building, just far enough back to examine their faces as they made their way out. They all looked so serious. Cindy didn't know much about the business world, but it certainly seemed to employ dour people, Thorne included.

For most of the afternoon, Cindy had weighed the possible consequences of telling Thorne the truth. Losing her job was only one of several unpleasant options that had entered her mind. And ultimately he could hate her, which would be so much worse than anything else he could do.
She wanted to scream at him for being so obstinate, so willful, so determined to be part of her life. He had to know she didn't want to be found, and yet he'd ignored her wishes and driven her to this. He'd forced her into doing the one thing she dreaded most—telling him the truth.

Her tenacity hardened as she watched Thorne step out of the building, his face as sober as everyone else's. He carried a briefcase in one hand and walked briskly past her. Unseeing. Uncaring. As oblivious to her then as he was every morning when he walked into his clean office.

“Thorne.” She didn't shout; her voice was little more than a whisper.

He stopped abruptly, almost in midstride, and turned around. “Cindy?” His gaze scanned the sea of faces that swam before him. “Cindy?” he repeated, louder this time, unsure if this was real. He'd been half out of his mind for days on end. Nothing shocked him anymore. He'd known her voice instantly, but that too could be part of his deep yearning to find her. She was here and she'd called out to him, and he wouldn't let her escape him again.

“Here.” She took a step closer, her hands clenched in fists at her sides. “Call off the detective. I'll tell you—” She wasn't allowed to finish.

Thorne dropped the briefcase onto the sidewalk, grabbed her shoulders and hauled her into his arms. His mouth came down on hers with such intensity that he drove the breath from her lungs. His hand dug into her hair as he tangled it with his fingers, as though binding her to him. His mouth on hers left her in no doubt regarding the strength of his emotions.

Cindy's first reaction was stunned surprise. She'd expected him to be furious, to shout at her and demand an explanation. But not this. Never this.

Once the initial shock of his kiss faded, she surrendered to the sheer pleasure of simply being in his arms. She held on to him, throwing her arms around him, relishing the rush of sensations that sprang up within her. She couldn't have pushed him away had her life depended on it. The resolution to end their relationship had melted the minute he'd touched her.

“This had better not be a dream,” Thorne said, moving his lips against her temple. “You taste so unbelievably real.”

Cindy flattened her palms against his chest in an attempt to break away, but he held on to her. “Thorne, please, people are looking.”

“Let them.” He kissed her again, with such hunger that she was left breathless and disoriented. She made a weak effort to break loose again.

“Thorne,” she pleaded. Every second he continued to hold her weakened her determination to explain everything. He felt so warm and vital…so wonderful. “Please…don't,” she begged as he covered her face with kisses. Even as she spoke, pleading with him to stop, she was turning her head one way and then another, allowing him to do as he wished.

“I'm starving for you,” he murmured, kissing her again.

She was so weak-willed with Thorne. She could start out with the firmest of resolves but after being with him for ten seconds she had no fortitude left at all.

“Cindy—” his arms tightened “—I've been going crazy without you.”

It hadn't been any less traumatic for Cindy. “You hired a detective?”

“He found you?”

“No…I heard you were looking.” Her hands lovingly
framed his face. “Thorne, please call him off.” She didn't want the private detective harassing or intimidating those she loved most. “I'll tell you everything you want to know…only, please, please, don't hate me.”

“Hate you?” His look was incredulous. “I'm not capable of feeling any different toward you than the night we met.” For the first time he seemed to notice the stares they were generating. “Let's get out of here.” He reached for her hand and led her purposefully away.

“Thorne,” she cried with a surprised glance over her shoulder. “Your briefcase.”

He seemed so utterly astonished that he could have forgotten it, Cindy laughed outright.

Without hesitating, he turned and went back to retrieve it, dragging her with him. “See what you do to me?” His words were distressed.

“Do you know what you do to me?” she responded with equal consternation.

“I must have quite an effect on you, all right. You can't seem to get away from me fast enough. You sneak off like a thief in the night and turn up when I least expect it. I don't sleep well, my appetite's gone and I'm convinced you're playing me for a fool.”

“Oh, Thorne, you don't honestly believe that, do you?” She came to an abrupt stop. People had to walk around them, but Cindy didn't care. She couldn't bear it if Thorne believed anything less than what she truly felt for him. “I think I'd rather die than let you assume for even a minute that I didn't care for you.”

“You have one heck of a way of showing it.”

“But, Thorne, if you'd give me a chance to—”

Undaunted by the traffic, Thorne paraded them halfway into the street, his arm raised. “Taxi!”

“Where are we going?”

A Yellow cab pulled up in front of them. Thorne ignored her question; he opened the car door and climbed in beside her a second later.

Before Cindy could say another word, Thorne spoke to the driver. When he'd finished he leaned back and stared at her as though he still wasn't completely sure she was really there.

Cindy hadn't thought about
where
she'd talk to Thorne, only that she would. Over and over she'd rehearsed what she wanted to say. But she hadn't counted on him hauling her across Manhattan to some unknown destination. From the looks he was giving her now, he didn't appear any too pleased with her.

Thorne finally relaxed and expelled a long sigh. “Do you realize we've been to bed together and I don't even know your name?”

Cindy felt more than saw the driver's interest perk up. Color exploded into her cheeks as she glared hotly at Thorne. “Would you stop it?” she hissed. He was doing this on purpose, to punish her.

“I don't think I can.” He regarded her levelly. “You've got me so twisted up inside, I don't know what's real and what's not anymore. My parents think I need to see a shrink and I'm beginning to agree with them!”

Cindy covered his hand with her own. “I'm certainly nothing like the Cinderella you met that night.” Her voice was a raw whisper, filled with pain. “I thought I could pretend to be something I'm not for one glamorous night, but it all backfired. I've hated deceiving you—you deserve better than me.”

“Is your name really Cindy?”

She nodded. “That's what started it all. Now I wish I'd been named Hermione or Frieda—anything but Cindy. If I had, then maybe I wouldn't have believed in that night and decided to do something so stupid.”

“No matter who you are and what you've done,” Thorne told her solemnly, “I'll never regret the Christmas Ball.”

“That's the problem—I can't either. I'll treasure it always. But Thorne, don't you see? I'm
not
Cinderella. I'm only me.”

“In case you haven't noticed, I'm not exactly Prince Charming.”

“But you are,” Cindy argued.

“No. And that's been our problem all along—we each seemed to think the other wanted to continue the fantasy.” He put his arm around her and drew her close to his side. “That evening was marvelous, but it was one night in a million. If we're going to develop a relationship, it has to be between the people we are now.”

Cindy leaned against him, sighed inwardly and closed her eyes as he rested his chin on her head.

“I want to be with Cindy,” he said tenderly, “not the imaginary Cinderella.”

“But Cindy will disappoint you.”

“If you're looking for Prince Charming in me, then you're in for a sad awakening as well.”

“You don't even know who I am!”

“It doesn't matter.” Her lovely face commanded all his attention. He sensed that something deep inside her was insecure and frightened. She'd bolted and run away from him twice, her doubts overtaking her. No more. Whatever Williams had dug up about her had brought her back. She was here because Mike had gotten close to her, had begun to uncover her secrets.

Thorne had found his Cindy again and could on go with his life. The restless feeling that had worn away at him was dissipating. He was a man who liked his privacy, but overnight he'd discovered he was lonely and could no longer adjust to the solitude. Not when he'd met the one woman he wanted to share his world with. All he had to do was persuade
her
of that. Only this time, he'd be more cautious. He wouldn't make demands of her. She could tell him whatever was troubling her when she was ready. Every time he started questioning her, it ended in disaster.

Cindy sat upright, her back stiff as she turned her head and glanced out the side window. She knew he was right; they couldn't go back to the night of the Christmas Ball. But she wasn't completely convinced they could form a lasting relationship as Thorne and Cindy.

“You say it doesn't matter,” she said thoughtfully, “but when I tell you I'm the girl who—”

“Stop.” His hand reached for hers, squeezing her fingers tightly. “Are you married, engaged or currently involved with another man?”

She glared at him for even suggesting such a thing. “No, of course not!”

“Involved in any illegal activity?”

She moved several inches away from him and sat starchly erect, shocked at his questions. “Is
that
what you think?”

“Just answer me.”

“No!” She had difficulty saying it. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear in nervous agitation. “I don't cheat, rarely lie and am thoroughly law-abiding—I don't even jaywalk, and in New York that's something!”

Thorne's warm smile chased the chill from her bones.
“Then, who and what you are is of no importance. You're the one who has all the objections. What I feel is apparently of little consequence to you.”

“That's not true. I'm only trying to save you from embarrassment.”

“Embarrassment?”

“My family name isn't linked with three generations of banking.”

“I wouldn't care if it was linked with generations of garbage collecting.”