Charming: A Cinderella Billionaire Story Read online

  “I know, but Mrs. Hagen told me that the decision was unanimous! She said it was the best proposal she’d seen since yours.”

  Stunned, I hugged my little sister. Sure, I’d been part of the drama club and various student performances when I’d been in high school, but I would’ve never dreamed of submitting something I’d written my sophomore year. But Cara had had the confidence, and she’d been chosen.

  I squeezed the back of her neck through her light blonde hair, a nearly identical color to mine. “I’m so proud of you. This is so amazing.”

  Cara stepped back and then laughed at my expression. Reaching up, she wiped a tear from my face. “Don’t go all weepy on me. This is a good thing.” Then she hesitated. “Isn’t it?”

  “Are you kidding? Of course it is, dummy. Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “Well… this will take a lot of my time. I have the synopsis, but I have to write all the dialogue and stage directions…”

  “That’s the fun part.” I smiled at her, but she still looked concerned.

  “Yeah, but… between that and my homework, I won’t have a lot of free time now.”

  “So?”

  “So, Janie said her father might hire us at his store on Saturdays starting next month. I’m sixteen now, old enough for a part-time job. But with this play—”

  “No,” I said, the word coming out clearly even though her words made me want to cry harder. But years of high school acting experience meant I could keep my voice steady my voice when I needed to. “Don’t even think like that. Your job is to go to school and do your best. That’s your only job, so it’s a good thing you’re so damn good at it.”

  Some of the tension left Cara’s face, but I knew she wouldn’t let this go that easily. She was such a good kid. I wished I could give the world to her instead of this dumpy little apartment.

  “I want to help, Autumn. You do so much… two jobs, giving up your own chance at college. I just want to contribute.”

  “You do,” I said, and now my voice wavered a little, because it was so true. “We’re a family, and it takes both of us. I work, and you go to school. There’s no difference except spending your study period working on a play sounds a lot more fun than bringing people greasy fries or listening to people complain about their cable.” Cara thought my evening job was to answer customer-service calls for a cable company. “And besides, you are contributing by being the best student that that high school has ever seen.”

  Cara gave me a quick hug again. “The best since you were there,” she said. Then her frown returned. “It’s not going to make you feel weird or anything, is it? Or sad? Because of…”

  She trailed off, but I knew what she was getting at. The play I’d written had been chosen my senior year of high school, but we’d barely even begun rehearsals when I had to drop out of drama club. That was when mom got the diagnosis that changed everything. I’d barely finished high school.

  “I’m one hundred percent happy for you. I’m thinking only good things. And I think that reheated chicken is not a special enough meal for news this big,” I said, still controlling my voice, although I knew my eyes were teary. Cara worked so hard. She got straight As, participated in all kinds of extracurricular activities, and would likely get at least a partial scholarship to the state university. She wanted to double-major in English and Theater. She wanted to be a teacher, and I wanted more than anything to help make that happen for her. But money was so tight. If I could, I’d take her out for the most fantastic meal of her life. Steak, lobster, you name it. But right now, all I could offer her was leftover fried chicken and potatoes.

  Cara laughed. Her earlier enthusiasm had returned in full force. “Chicken sounds great. Although…”

  “Although…” I said speculatively, looking into her blue eyes and recognizing that hopeful look. People always said we looked alike, same pale blonde hair and fair complexion. We were even the same size. But the similarities ended there. When had my own eyes ever sparkled that much? When had I last been that excited about something? “Although… maybe we should go out for ice cream afterward?”

  “You read my mind,” she said.

  3

  Ford

  “Stocks slipped again—third day in a row. Better get on that, son.” An elderly man across the table squeezed an eye shut in what was possibly supposed to be a wink as he raised his wine glass to his chapped lips.

  I gave him a noncommittal nod I hoped he’d interpret as “on it” instead of “fuck you” as I’d intended. Nods were a good way of dealing with the fussy old men who used to be my father’s business cronies.

  Dropping my napkin on top of my dinner plate, I leaned back in my chair. The steak had been deliciously rare, but lobster had never been one of my favorites. Though I supposed it’d been decently cooked if you enjoyed eating what basically amounted to a giant silverfish that lived in the ocean. The Lancasters didn’t do things halfway at their dinner parties—dinner parties that I was all but required to attend, since Edwin Lancaster was a board member. Nearly all the board was here except my mother. Normally, she never missed any kind of social or business event, but tonight she’d been laid up by a cold. I doubted the cold by itself would have stopped her, but she’d never show up in public with a red nose and splotchy face.

  People started to leave the table, so I figured it was okay to make my escape from another old-timer who’d talked my ear off about how he’d made his money in railroad shipping approximately a hundred and fifty years ago. Or maybe he wasn’t that old. But he spoke as if he was.

  I made my way through the living room to stand by the fireplace, enjoying the heat from the large hearth. My place had a sterile, aesthetically pleasing fireplace that ran on gas. Someday I’d have to get Jason to hire a decorator who didn’t have his nose stuck up the ass of the trendiest designer du jour.

  Not that I spent a lot of time at my place. Not when there was so much to do at the company. And not when there were exceedingly dull but obligatory social events to go to.

  “Ford,” a soft, feminine voice whispered, practically in my ear. Turning, I leaned down and kissed the cheek of the brunette in the strapless, figure-hugging gown. I remembered what she looked like naked, but I couldn’t remember her name.

  “You look lovely,” I said instead. That was my go-to line to use with any woman whose name I couldn’t think of.

  “And you look like you’re about to throw yourself into that fire.”

  I chuckled. “These kinds of gatherings are necessary evils, but no, it’s not my idea of a good time.”

  “I remember your idea of a good time,” she said, her dark brown eyes hungry and knowing. But her voice… she sounded like a little girl or some kind of cartoon character. I couldn’t help comparing her voice to another one, a rich, full, sultry one I heard in my dreams every night. Moaning my name. Calling to me. Coming for me.

  “That was my idea of a good time too,” she said, placing one well-manicured hand on my chest, sliding it under my suit coat. Her touch was warm. Her whole body would be warm—and willing—if I took her hand and pulled her out onto the deck, then across the lawn to the boathouse by the little lake. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d slipped away with a woman at an event such as this.

  But this wasn’t the woman I wanted. “Another time,” I said, and she withdrew, looking disappointed. Placing my hand on the small of her back, I led her back to the seating area, where I’d heard my name.

  “We’re in the den. Join us for an after-dinner drink.” It was Garrett, the chairman of the board of my family’s corporation. He’d been my dad’s right-hand man at the company for many years, and now he was mine.

  Following him, I entered what amounted to a man cave for very wealthy, powerful, and unimaginative men. We did the rich-businessman thing, drinking brandy and smoking cigars, talking business, and trading the bawdy jokes back and forth.

  It was torture. When Garrett got done telling the same story about him and my old ma
n on a deep-sea-fishing trip I’d heard a dozen times, I was able to retreat to a leather chair in the corner and check my phone. I was the CEO of a very large corporation—people would understand that I had to check my messages. At least, I hoped they thought that was what I was doing.

  Instead, I tapped open a picture. A picture I’d committed to memory, but couldn’t help examining several times a day. The woman in the picture was young, only twenty-three. Her blonde hair brushed lightly against her shoulders like a halo around her face. With a swipe of my fingers, I enlarged the image and gazed at her laughing blue eyes, so light that they almost seemed tinged with violet. She had the porcelain skin that was the sign of a natural blonde. And pale pink lips that looked soft and touchable even behind the glass of the screen. Her smile made me want to smile back, something I wasn’t known for doing.

  After another minute, someone called my name. Reluctantly, I closed the picture I wasn’t supposed to have, stood up, and thought about tomorrow. One more day and I’d again hear the sexy voice that matched the stunning picture.

  4

  Autumn

  Sitting at my desk, I leafed through the mail as I waited for the phone to ring. Or, rather, waited for the computer to chime, since the calls from Sultry Sirens all came through my laptop. It’d been a rather light evening. Only two callers so far, perhaps because it was Friday night. I let out a sigh as I set three bills aside. Why were there so many bills for just two people? But at least Cara didn’t know how hard it was to make ends meet. Well, she had an idea, but she didn’t need to know how bad things actually were. She needed to concentrate on her school and her studies. She had to get at least a partial scholarship, or I’d never be able to afford college tuition for her.

  Fortunately, Cara was an extremely diligent student. On the nights I worked for Sultry Sirens, she went to the library after school. She never came home early, partly because I told her I’d be fired from my “customer-service job” if there was any background noise. Sometimes, when I went to pick her up at nine, I had to pry her away from her corner study carrel. She could easily do homework well past midnight. Or else work on her play.

  I smiled when I thought of what she’d told me about her writing. So far, it sounded like something of a modern-day retelling of Cinderella, which surprised me a little. But after losing our parents when she was so young and spending the last five years just above the poverty line, it was pretty natural she wanted Prince Charming to sweep her heroine off her feet. And from what I’d seen in her proposal, her heroine was no shrinking violet. There was no fairy godmother, no dress-designing mice to save the day. Her heroine was holding her own.

  My smile faded as I reached the end of the pile and stared at the return address on a pale gray envelope. Thank goodness I’d gotten it, not my sister. I’d have to be more careful to make sure I didn’t leave the mail lying around until I’d sorted through it.

  Just then my laptop beeped, and I hastily shoved the unopened letter in my desk drawer. Putting on the headset, I scanned the pertinent information on the screen. It was a new customer. And he’d chosen #9, the Dominatrix.

  Oh crap.

  That was my least favorite role to take. Most of the other roles I could fake my way through, thanks in part to four years of drama club in high school. I grinned briefly at the thought of what Mrs. Hagen, who’d taught us improv techniques, would think of the way I made use of them now. But Dominatrix? That was so not me.

  Quickly, I flipped through the ever-present Sultry Sirens manual on my desk. Finding the right page, I scanned down, looking at some of the opening lines. I took a few deep breaths, filling and emptying my lungs completely to give my voice resonance. Sometimes it helped me to think of this job as performing in the small theater we’d used in high school. My duty was to play the part the client wanted; it was as simple as that. I needed this job, so I could do this.

  The green light on the computer screen went on as I pressed the button on the side of my headset. I heard a click and knew I was live. It was show time.

  “Good evening,” I said, my voice firm and strong, betraying none of my nervousness. Betraying none of how stupid I felt about what I was planning to say next. “Have you been a bad boy today?”

  There was a silence at the other end of the line, and I felt like an idiot. And then an unexpected voice. “That depends on who you ask.”

  “Ford!” Every ounce of tension faded from my body and I broke into a smile. “You jerk! You scared me.”

  “Now, is that any way to treat a paying customer? Is that in your manual?” His rich baritone was playful, teasing. With him, I could relax. Or at least I could once I’d chewed him out.

  “If I were a dominatrix, I’d punish you for that,” I chided.

  “Yeah?” he asked, his voice teasingly skeptical. “I can’t quite picture you wielding a paddle. Have you ever spanked a man?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Has a man ever spanked you?”

  “No!”

  “Would you want one to?”

  I blushed, something I rarely did after three months on the job. But somehow, with him, it was different. “No comment.”

  “That means yes.”

  “Have I mentioned that you’re my most irritating client?”

  “Many times,” he said, but he changed the subject, much to my relief. “So who have you been tonight?”

  “Nothing too exciting. A Cheerleader and a Submissive.”

  “Men are so predictable,” he said.

  “Hey, that’s my line.”

  “Tell me what you did when you were submissive.”

  Uh-oh. Apparently he hadn’t abandoned the topic earlier. I hesitated, not sure how to respond. I knew I shouldn’t talk about other phone calls because those men deserved their privacy. And I didn’t want to talk about other men because I hadn’t enjoyed speaking to them. With Ford, it was a different story. I couldn’t help it; I liked the way he teased me. When he called, it was always the highlight of my evening. Okay, maybe it was the highlight of my day, too.

  Making my decision, I kept things light. “If you wanted a Submissive, you should’ve chosen #8.”

  “I could call back, you know,” he said, his tone playful but with a hint of a challenge behind it that made my pulse react. “Make you tell me how you’d please me if you were here.”

  With any other caller, this was fairly standard. In my various Sultry Sirens personas, I could flirt and banter back. But with Ford, I wasn’t using a persona. I was myself. And the real me didn’t have much actual experience with men like Ford. Truth be told, I had little experience with men in general. My last—and pretty much only—real boyfriend had been a few years ago. In high school, I’d dated a little, but nothing serious. I’d certainly never met a man like Ford before. And now I didn’t know what to do.

  He must have sensed my hesitation. “It’s okay, Summer. I’m not asking you to do anything like that.”

  I exhaled, relieved. Ford turned me on, more than any man I’d ever talked to, but I didn’t want our conversations to descend into fake panting and moaning. I liked the way we talked now. Which was probably pretty selfish of me, considering that he was the one who paid for the calls. He’d essentially hired me to talk to him about anything he wanted. Maybe this was what he really wanted and he was too polite to say so?

  Taking a deep breath, I said, “You can, you know. This is a fantasy hotline. I’m supposed to do what the client wants. I could be your fantasy.”

  “Maybe you already are my fantasy,” he said, his tone casual but sincere.

  I smiled, forgetting he couldn’t see me do that. “Sure I am. I’ve heard the number-one fantasy among men is a woman they can’t see or touch.”

  “You seem to have forgotten a few senses. Hearing, for one. I can hear your rich, full-throated voice, and it makes other women’s voices pale in comparison. And I can imagine seeing you… touching you… tasting you.”

  Damn, he’d never said any
thing like that to me before and it was really getting to me. He was really getting to me. I closed my eyes, letting his sexy words wash over me. He was always complimenting my voice, but in my opinion, his was every bit as delicious.

  “What I wouldn’t give to run my fingers through your hair,” he said, his voice huskier. “Is it really blonde, or is that just something you say for the sake of your customers?”

  “It’s really blonde,” I breathed, letting my eyes fall shut. “I’m stroking it now, pretending it’s your hand in my hair.”

  “Stop.”

  His voice was firm, and my eyes flew open. What was I doing? I mean, yeah, it was my job to say things like that to men. But I’d never done that with him. And judging from his tone, it seemed clearer than ever that that was not what he wanted. “What’s wrong?” I asked, going on the offensive to cover for the swirl of confusing emotions in my head.

  “I told you before. I don’t want fake. I want the real thing.”

  He wasn’t argumentative, just firm.

  “But it’s not fake if I’m really doing it. Really running my hand through my hair,” I protested.

  “It’s still an act. In real life, you wouldn’t be narrating what’s going on. You’d be reacting, not acting. If you were in my bedroom… following my orders… you’d be feeling. Experiencing. Not thinking about what to say and how to say it.”

  “It’s my job,” I said.

  “Not with me, it’s not.” He paused a moment, and even with the distance between us, I somehow got the feeling that he was gathering his thoughts. “You said before your job is to do what the customer wants. Well, this customer wants you to be yourself. To be real. That’s all I want.”

  My skin was still flushed. I felt like I’d lost some of his respect, and it wasn’t a good feeling. I could count on one hand the number of people in my life who seemed to respect and admire me, and he was on that short list. Fear of that changing made me a little angry.