Cinderella After Midnight. Lilian Darcy

resort where everyone only goes to be seen.”

      “No, I imagine one would find that very trying,” he said. If she had picked up on his parody of her accent and word choice, she didn’t let on.

      The music ended, and he felt her begin to pull out of his arms as if she couldn’t wait to get back to Wainwright. Afraid of being found out?

      Pretending not to notice her movement, he tightened his arms around her and said very smoothly, “We’ll have another one, shall we? The night’s young yet. Plenty of time to…” Deliberately he trailed off, and she fell into the trap.

      “To what?” she said.

      “I was hoping you’d tell me.”

      “I—I don’t understand.”

      “No?”

      He shrugged, in no hurry to get to the point. It was much more interesting to do this slowly. The music began again, another waltz. On the ice, professional skaters were whirling around in glittering costumes with flaring skirts. A faint mist arose from the cold white surface.

      On an impulse, Patrick asked her, “So, what do you think of the way they’ve set all this up tonight?”

      “Oh, they’ve done a terrific job, don’t you think?” she answered at once, and her face lit up. The accent got a little wobbly, but she didn’t notice and he didn’t care. Her eyes were warm, dark pools and her cheeks were pink.

      “The whole thing’s incredible,” she continued. “I could never have imagined they’d make it look so good, when it…uh…must normally be so bland. They must have worked incredibly hard. The sculptures are beautiful, and the lights, and the costumes. And I hate to think who was up on ladders for hours frosting all those patterns on the glass. I love it!”

      “But of course you’ve attended this sort of function many times before,” he reminded her gently, knowing perfectly well that she hadn’t.

      Jaded jet-setters didn’t express such enthusiasm in his experience. Nor did they spare a thought for the anonymous workers who had toiled to prepare their pleasures. He’d never met one who wasn’t entirely and selfishly oblivious to such details.

      So who was she?

      She didn’t seem like a fortune hunter. There was a sincerity about her…which was a ridiculous word to choose when even the name she’d given him was phony. She had to be about as sincere as a computer-generated telephone message.

      “Oh, of course,” she was saying quickly, the accent back in place and more plum-in-the-mouth than ever. “But this actually compares rather well to the Ascot Ball, and…uh…and so forth. I’m pleasantly surprised.” She faked a well-bred yawn behind her hand, then shot a little glance up through her lashes to gauge his response.

      He had to hide a smile. Hell, she was a cute little liar!

      Is that champagne going to my head? he wondered.

      It was a long time since he’d enjoyed dancing this much. Normally, it was something he put up with. He considered it a matter of business etiquette if the occasion was professional, or a form of foreplay if it was private. But tonight…with her…it felt great.

      “I like the dinosaurs, by the way,” he said.

      “The—? Oh. Right.” The tip of her tongue darted nervously to the corner of her soft, lovely mouth, and she gave a jerky little nod.

      He hid another smile of satisfaction and amusement. He’d managed to identify the scratchy feeling on the heel of her hand, finally. A Band-Aid. Just now, he had sneaked a look and had discovered that it was the kind made for children, printed with red, blue and yellow dinosaurs.

      Another tiny clue as to who she really was, another thing to pique his interest. Wearing a Band-Aid like that, she had to spend a lot of time with kids. It didn’t fit the character she was trying to portray, and she knew it, which accounted for her nervous reaction to his discovery. Strangely, it didn’t seem to fit the fortune-hunter stereotype, either.

      “Will you be staying long?” he asked now.

      “No, I don’t expect so,” she said quickly. “I’ll leave as soon as I can. I have to, uh, be somewhere else later in the evening. You know, one’s busy social whirl.”

      “You’re talking about the ball. I meant staying in Philly.”

      “Oh. Right,” Cat repeated thinly.

      Drat! Again!

      It was as if a cloak had slipped. She gathered her artificial role around herself once more and cursed the dropping of her guard. It kept happening, when she’d been so confident that she had it down pat. There was something about Patrick Callahan that was way too distracting.

      And he was way too observant, as well. That darned Band-Aid! Yesterday evening, she’d cut her finger at the twenty-four-hour child-care center where she worked, slicing some fruit for the kids’ late-night snack. She had meant to exchange the dinosaur Band-Aid for a plain one today, but had forgotten in the flurry of getting ready.

      “How silly of me!” she trilled with an effort. “Of course you meant this wonderful city of yours. But I’m afraid I’m leaving tomorrow.”

      “Somehow I thought you might be,” he murmured. “Flying first-class?”

      “Naturally. To Paris.”

      “Wonderful. Where do you usually stay when you’re there?”

      “Oh, just an exclusive little hotel downtown.” She gave a vague wave, which accidentally brushed his neck. It was warm, and suddenly she caught the waft of a musky male scent, a mixture of him and his soap, released by the brief brush of her fingers. “You wouldn’t know it,” she finished hastily.

      “Probably not,” he agreed. “Interesting, though. I’ve never heard anyone refer to Paris as having a ‘downtown’ before.”

      “No, well, I didn’t know if you knew the city or not,” Cat said, trying to infuse a note of arrogant condescension into her tone. Paris didn’t have a downtown? How was she supposed to know that, since she’d barely been out of Pennsylvania?

      The man was really starting to make her nervous. That glint in his eye. That little smile that came and went in his face. It drew her attention far too often to his extremely kissable mouth.

      Yikes, no! Not kissable! Good gosh! Note to self: No more Mirabeau champagne tonight!

      “I know Paris,” he was saying. “I was wondering if you do.”

      “Well, of course I do!” she claimed, then added with sketchy logic, “Didn’t I just say I’m about to go there?”

      “So you did.” Again, he smiled at her, creasing all the tiny laugh lines on his face in a way that made him look far less intimidating, far more human. Then he slowly pulled her closer so that she had no choice but to rest her head against his shoulder as they danced, and there was that fresh, musky scent again.

      She could feel his legs, now, getting tangled in the layers of her dress, and his arm was no longer safely in the middle of her back but much farther round, in the curve of her waist, just below her breast. As they moved, she could feel the weight of her fullness there, nudging softly against his hand. It didn’t feel anywhere near as unwelcome as she wanted it to, and she was melting inside. Was he flirting with her?

      A silence fell. She would have spoken, only she was too afraid of saying something that would betray herself to him, too afraid that she had betrayed herself already.

      Darn it, she knew she had! He had guessed who she was—or at the very least, who she wasn’t—and he was playing along with her.

      Instead of hating him for it as she should, she found herself responding at first. Responding to that little half-smile of his, as if they shared a delicious, creamy, edible secret, instead of a secret that could blow her