Operation Cinderella (7 page)

His facial muscles tensed ever so slightly. A rookie might have missed it, but Macie had been interviewing subjects since her high school newspaper days. “I blew my knee out in the last quarter of the Homecoming game. That pretty much nixed my football career, not to mention my athletic scholarship.”

Pressing her advantage, she asked, “Is that when you decided to pursue a career in sociology?”

He laughed and shook his head. “Try road construction.”

Road construction, was he putting her on? Then again, maybe he wasn’t. She glanced down at his hands, the knuckles shiny with scars.

“You’re surprised.”

“A little,” she admitted, recognizing it wasn’t really a question. “It’s just that, well, you’ve become so prominent, a national figure.”

He held out his hands and turned them palms up. It wasn’t only the tops that had suffered. Thick, raised flesh, the ghost of what must have been some truly wicked calluses, banded the underside of the knuckles. A white scar zigzagged through the right thumb.

“Much of U.S. 271 was repaired with these two hands. I still have the calluses to show for it. To this day I get a kick out of driving and pointing out the stretches I worked on.”

Staring down, Macie felt her face flushing. A similar heat pooled in her lower belly. Either the air conditioning had suddenly broken, or the bastard was turning her on.

He dropped his hands under the table. “A good half of the guys on my construction crew were former cons. Some of them became my buddies and later my research subjects. Most were from rural working class church-going families, not all that different from mine. The similarities between us got me curious. What are the drivers that bring a basically good, God-fearing person so low that he’ll commit a stupid, in some cases heinous, crime?”

Fascinated, Macie asked, “What did you find?” She’d meant to at least skim his dissertation but things had moved so quickly she hadn’t had time.

“It wasn’t income, race, or ethnicity, or whether or not you were a first generation American versus a tenth that made the difference. Having a relative who’d been imprisoned was a minor influencer but the big explanation, the single variable that explained almost forty percent of the behavioral variance, was family structure.”

“Family structure?”

He nodded. “It boiled down to whether you’d grown up with two parents at home, or one.”

“Let me guess, the children of single parents were more likely to become criminals?’ she said, working double time to smooth any edge from her tone.

Expression sober, he nodded again. “Unfortunately, yes. That’s why I worry so much about Samantha.”

He looked so sincerely, earnestly upset that suddenly it was really hard—impossible—to write him off as just another conservative pig. Still, she couldn’t resist adding, “Teenage angst to criminal act seems like a pretty big leap.”

He shrugged and blew out a breath. “Maybe or maybe not. Back in New York, Sam shoplifted. It was a crap charm bracelet not worth twenty bucks, and she had more than enough cash on her to pay for it, yet she chose to steal it.” His gaze latched onto hers. “Sam shouldn’t have to bear the brunt of my screw ups.”

The sudden stab of sympathy she felt for him was unwelcome yet irrefutable. “You’re being awfully hard on yourself.”

Whoa, where had that come from? She’d come here to dismantle the media machine that was Ross Mannon, not to comfort. Bringing the Mighty Mannon low was Operation Cinderella’s primary directive. And yet as hard as he was on others, it seemed he was ten times harder on himself. Macie didn’t want to, but she couldn’t help respecting him for that. More than respect him, she
felt
for him—a dangerous headspace for someone in her position.

He set his jaw. “I’ve spent the last few years being a more or less absentee father, content with talking to Samantha for our requisite five minutes on the phone every night and getting her for either Thanksgiving or Christmas and one month in the summer. But that’s not really parenting, and if I didn’t have my own study results to show it, I’d have my gut.” He raised desperate, searching eyes to her face, and as much as Macie wanted to look away, somehow she couldn’t. “That’s the big reason I brought you here, Ms. Gray. Not to cook meals and keep house and run errands, although having those tasks taken care of will be a relief, but because I need help in building a bridge to my daughter. I’m not so sure who she is right now, and I’m pretty sure she feels the same about me. I can’t lose my girl, Miss Gray, I just can’t.”

Macie shook her head. Her throat felt suddenly, suspiciously tight. “You’re not going to lose her.”

He held out his right hand, a hand that just moments before had seemed the key to unlocking her personal Pandora’s Box of fantasies. “With you on my side, Miss Gray, for the first time in weeks, I honestly believe that.”

Chapter Five

Francesca’s call saying she was in town came as a welcome surprise. Meeting for lunch would be a golden opportunity to catch up and compare notes on Sam, or so Ross figured. Even if they hadn’t been coping with a kid in crisis, he would have sincerely looked forward to seeing her. Their divorce was ancient history. Once they’d ceased being warring spouses, they’d fallen back into being friends with fair ease.

The trendy Dupont Circle restaurant wouldn’t have been his pick, but as usual Frannie knew her own mind. Also as usual, he was the first to arrive. Taking possession of the table he’d reserved, he flipped open his phone where her text message waited. As he’d expected, she was running late but on her way. He went ahead and ordered their drinks, a glass of pinot grigio for her and a Coors for him. He was halfway through his beer when he spotted her by the hostess stand, a vision of haute couture elegance in a lime suit that caught the color of her almond-shaped eyes. He lifted a hand and flagged her over.

She smiled broadly and made her way toward him through the aisle of tables. “Hullo, darling, sorry to be late. Traffic was beastly.”

Rising, he declined to point out that city traffic was always bad and maybe just once she might try leaving a few minutes early or even on time. Instead he pulled out her chair. “You look good, Frannie.”

At thirty-four, Francesca was a sleekly beautiful woman with wavy black hair and jade-colored eyes that turned up slightly at the corners. As a top fashion photographer, her work regularly appeared in
Vogue
,
Elle
,
In Style
, and
Glamour
as well as in a host of European magazines, the names of which he could never remember. Though he wasn’t above giving her the occasional hard time over what he saw as the flagrant inconsistency between her liberal political views and voracious materialism, still he was proud of her. Thank God they’d divorced while they were still young enough to mend fences and move on to co-parent their daughter with a minimum of bitterness, a considerable feat for two such drastically different people. She was, without reservation, one of his best friends…so long as he didn’t have to be married to her.

She put down her purse, a cavernous caramel-colored shoulder bag so hideous it had to be designer, and slid into her seat. “My, you’re looking smashing, not your usual rumpled curmudgeon self at all.” She sipped her wine, taking his measure as he sat back down. “New suit, isn’t it?” Clothing, Francesca never missed.

He tried for a casual tone. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

An earlier impromptu shopping stop to Georgetown Park had started out as a peace offering for Sam. Somehow he’d ended up in Brooks Brothers standing before a display of Italian silk ties and racks of suits.

Eyes alight, Francesca clucked her tongue. “And just when I’d memorized your entire wardrobe, all three dark suits and five striped ties, not counting the army of white button-down Oxfords.”

“What can I say, I like keeping you on your toes. How’s that wine by the way?”

“Lovely.” She took another sip, staring at him over the glass rim. “Though after the week I’ve had, I could probably use a martini.”

“That bad?”

She hesitated, which was unlike her, and finally shrugged. “The shoot in Milan for
Vogue
has been pushed back a week, which means the location bookings, everything will have to be rescheduled. I’m still not entirely certain how I’m to manage it, but of course I will. By the by, I caught your last broadcast.”

Her turning the topic away from herself wasn’t lost on him, but for now he decided to go with it. “You listened to my show? To what do I owe this honor?”

She picked up her menu and opened it. “One of my prop people happened to mention your name, and I couldn’t resist a listen. Mind you, darling, I say this with only love in my heart, but you came off as a perfect pig.” She glanced about, feigning concern. “I actually considered coming here in a wig and dark glasses.”

He grinned. “Afraid your NOW membership might be revoked if you’re caught having lunch with the enemy?” Because he knew it drove her crazy, he continued to ignore the frosted mug their waiter had brought and swigged his beer straight from the bottle.

Wrinkling her nose, she reached over and pulled off the paper cocktail napkin that had stuck to the bottle’s bottom. “That would be the very least of it.”

He opened his menu and did a quick scan, then glanced to the neighboring table where two ridiculously gargantuan salads had just been served. “Next time I’m picking the restaurant.”

“Really, Ross, ingesting one meal of something other than meat and potatoes isn’t going to murder you. You’ve absolutely no appreciation for the culinary arts.”

“Funny, I don’t remember you being all that culinary when we were married.”

Shrugging off his less than subtle reminder of what a disaster she was in the kitchen, she said, “I am, so long as someone else is doing the cooking.”

No wonder it hadn’t worked out between them. One good thing had come out of their marriage, though, that made even the worst of the pain worthwhile—Sam. Whatever regrets he’d racked up, his daughter wasn’t one of them. And then there was the very valuable lesson he’d learned: opposites may attract but they don’t stick. When, or rather if, he ever remarried, it would be to a woman who shared his old school values. Until Miss Martha Jane Gray had come along in a swish of soft pastel skirts, he’d given up on such women existing anymore.

He thought of their first night’s dinner and a smile lifted his lips. He’d almost forgotten how it felt to sit across the table from another adult and share not just good food but good conversation. Eating alone was no damned fun. Before Sam had moved in, he’d usually grabbed a quick bite on his way home or ordered in Chinese or pizza, which he ate at his desk or in front of the TV while watching the news. But he and Martha Jane must have sat at the table for almost two hours, the coffee growing cold in their cups as they talked about both everything and nothing at all. She was so easy to talk to, to be with. He only hoped he hadn’t bored her too badly with his rambling—maybe she’d only been acting interested out of good manners or worse yet, fear of being fired. But neither politeness nor fear came close to explaining how her pretty face had lit when he’d first walked inside the apartment. He couldn’t have imagined that—could he?

“Earth to Ross.” Francesca’s voice pulled him back to the present.

He snapped to, alarmed to realize he’d been blindly staring into space. “Sorry.” Hoping he was picking up the last thread of conversation, he asked, “So I take it the boy wonder chef is working out?”

“Frederick isn’t a boy. He’s coming on twenty-seven. As for the wonder bit, well, you know what they say about an angel in the kitchen and a devil in the bedroom.” She winked.

“You can’t beat that, I guess.”

His thoughts returned to Martha Jane. She obviously had the kitchen part down. Now he found himself wondering where she’d stand on the bedroom half of the equation. She looked so sweet, so adorably innocent that he had a hard time imagining her so much as uncrossing those long, slim legs of hers. And yet there’d been one or two times when he’d been pretty sure he was seeing through to another side of her, one with a dash of the devil in it. Might there be more to her than the sweet, old-fashioned girl that met the eye? That was probably his wishful thinking at work. Several times he’d caught himself mentally peeling off that little print dress and it had taken all his willpower to force his thoughts back to decency. What was going on with him? Sure, he had the normal needs and urges, but having Martha Jane around twenty-four-seven was putting his morality and self-discipline to a grueling test.

Deciding on the sirloin sandwich, one of the few entrees that weren’t rabbit food, he snapped his menu closed. He glanced to the wire bread basket and the small brittle bakery items nestled inside. “I don’t guess a person could get a regular roll or biscuit around here?” Martha Jane’s biscuits had been fluffy as clouds.

Frannie rolled her eyes. “Really Ross, must you be such a Philistine?” She set aside her menu as well. “Along with the food being divine, this is a smashing place to people watch.”

“To
beautiful
people watch, you mean. And here I thought you came just to see me.”

Now that sparring with Francesca was a novelty and not a day-to-day occupation, he genuinely enjoyed her company. There had even been a handful of times since their divorce when loneliness or plain horniness had brought them precariously close to falling into bed together. Sex was one of the few things they’d done well as a couple. But caring didn’t equate to love, at least not the kind he wanted. Fortunately one or both of them had always managed to come back to their senses in time. The friendship they’d rebuilt was too precious to fling away on a whim.

In a quieter voice she said, “We made a beautiful daughter together. We managed to get that part right…or so I thought, until recently.”

Ross nodded, his appetite hitting the highway. “Tell me why she ran away, Francesca. I’d just as soon skip the bullshit and have you give it to me straight.”

She picked up her wineglass, swirling the amber liquid several times before answering. “She hates her school, she hates New York, and she hates Frederick, but mostly she hates me.” Beneath her perfectly cut clothing, her shoulders slumped. She set down her glass and looked pointedly away, but not before he caught the shimmer of tears in her eyes. “I’m famished. Where do you suppose our server’s got to?”

“Probably out back stomping more grapes for that high-end vintage you’re drinking, so talk to me.”

She looked back at him, trying for a smile, but the pooling tears ruined the effect. Ross reached for his handkerchief. Frannie and he might not see eye-to-eye on a lot of things, but he still understood her. No one could stick a knife in your heart and then twist it deep like your own kid.

She took the hankie from him and used it to blot her eyes. “I’d so hoped we’d divorced before we’d screwed her up too terribly.”

He reached across the table and laid his hand atop hers, his only desire to comfort. “Sam’s a good kid. She’s just going through a rough patch.” At least that’s what he tried telling himself every damn day. “Besides, all teenage girls hate their mothers. It’s practically a rite of passage. If it makes you feel any better, I’m not exactly topping her list of favorite people.” He summed up the circumstances leading to his confiscating the magazine.

She sat back in her seat with a sigh. “And yet I spoke to her this morning and she insists she wants to stay on in DC with you…permanently.”

Ross withdrew his hand. “Permanently?” That was news to him.

She nodded and sniffed back more tears. “Perhaps she should stay on, for a while at least. You may be a bit heavy handed with discipline, but at least she can count on you to be on the same continent.”

Ross froze. “Are you saying she can’t count on you for that?”

Her silence was all the answer he needed. Frannie was taking off again. The sinking feeling took him back to that long ago time when she’d handed him a squalling teething toddler and informed him she was taking herself to dinner and a movie before she lost her bloody mind. It was the first time he’d had sole responsibility for Sam. Even though it would only for a handful of hours, the prospect had terrified him. Panicked, he’d called his parents, expecting his mother to bail him out. Instead, she’d informed him she and his dad were having “date night,” Sam wouldn’t break, and someday he’d look back on the current chaos as “the good old days.”

She’d been right on all counts. More than once lately he’d found himself longing for the times when coping with colic, incoming teeth, and skinned knees were his biggest parenting problems.

Frannie waved a hand. “My schedule is madness, as you well know. As I recall, that was one of your chief complaints when we were married, and it’s ten times worse now. Depending on where we are in the season, I may have to be in Paris or Milan or Rio at the drop of a hat, often for weeks at a time. That’s manageable during the summer when I can take Sam with me or send her to stay with you, but now that she’s in high school, I can’t withdraw her in the middle of term.”

Christ, his own daughter was growing up as a latchkey kid, and until now he hadn’t even known it! Outrage flared, and then just as quickly burned inward. What had he thought she’d done with Sam when she went away on location? Stashed her in storage? The uncomfortable truth was that until now he hadn’t bothered to think about the details of his daughter’s life much at all.

“What she’s looking for, whether she understands it or not is stability, and that, Ross, is the very thing I can’t give her. But you can…unless, of course, you don’t want her.”

His spine stiffened. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? She’s my kid. Of course I want her.” Despite the year of family counseling they’d signed up for after the divorce, Frannie could still push his buttons.

“I’m only saying that if you’re in a new relationship, perhaps it isn’t the best time to take on a volatile fifteen-year-old living with you.”

“As it happens, I’m not in a new relationship and even if I was, it wouldn’t make any damned difference. Sam comes first.” Or so she would from here on.

One perfectly plucked brow arched. “You’re still alone?”

Apparently it wasn’t enough for her to push one or two of his buttons. She had to go for the whole goddamn control panel.

“Sam’s staying with me isn’t a problem. Let’s leave it at that.” He picked up his beer, warm now, and finished it off.

She’d turned the tables on him yet again. He might have the PhD, but Francesca was the smart one. Not only had she managed to get him to sign up for sole responsibility of their kid, but now she had him against the ropes defending his love life—or lack thereof.

She took another sip of her wine and studied him. “Oh dear, now I’ve made you grumpy.”

“I am not grumpy.” He scanned the floor. Jesus H. Christ, where was their waiter?

She pulled a mock pout. “I know that face of yours. You’ve all but swallowed your upper lip. You look quite like Ralph Fiennes when you do that. No, don’t stop. It’s sexy, Ross, really. You’ll want to be certain to pull that same face when you’re with your new friend.”