Cinderella and The Playboy. Laura Wright

have some, too.

      As Wanda plugged in curling irons and blow dryers, Abby gazed about the room. If ever a storybook had come to life, with people, props and costumes, this room would have been beyond the author’s imaginings.

      It was a den of some sort and quite different than the downstairs. Where that was modern and cold, this room was warm and inviting. Its very presence in the austere house made its owner even more enigmatic than before, and Abby wondered for a moment what else besides a cozy room lay hidden beneath C. K. Tanner’s cool, calm, collected and ultraprofessional exterior.

      Tall ceilings, dark-blue wall hangings and worn, comfortable tan leather chairs. Bright sunshine blazed a trail to the spectacular ocean view from the windows that made up one long wall. A large, tan sofa with two cushy pillows tucked into its corners faced a brick fireplace several steps above the roomy dressing area, where Abby and the team were assembled.

      Her stomach clenched. Again, she wondered if she’d be able to pull this off. Wife to millionaire playboy, C. K. Tanner.

      “Chin up,” La George commanded, a powder puff in his hand.

      Solid advice from the makeup artist. That’s exactly what she’d do. Because her future and the future of her art school were riding on it. She’d simply keep her chin up, be herself this weekend, do the best she could not to embarrass herself or Tanner and pray that the candy man believed them.

      In the entryway mirror, Tanner straightened his chocolate-brown Armani tie, shrugged into the matching jacket, then glanced at his watch. Good God, two and a half hours. What were they doing up there? He’d knocked on Abby’s door more than twenty minutes ago, but Wanda had told him she wasn’t ready yet. He shook his head. She was already a beautiful woman—she didn’t need that much help, for heaven’s sake. He was almost afraid to see what they’d done to her.

      Upstairs a door opened, and Tanner heard several voices whisper and giggle. Then the sound of high heels on the wood stairs echoed throughout the foyer.

      “Finally,” he mumbled under his breath, then called out, “I don’t know if you’re a wine drinker, Abby, but I opened two—”

      His voice broke off midsentence as he stared openmouthed at the vision that was slowly descending the stairs. Gone were the baggy clothes and the mop-top hair. Her green eyes flashed fire, reflected in the emerald silk dress cut just below the knee and just above the bust, accentuating a soft curve he’d only imagined she possessed. Her hair, which had usually been up or hidden, fell past her bare shoulders in rich, red curls. And then there was something he couldn’t have seen—Abby McGrady had legs that went on for days. Heat surged into him, circling, landing deep in his groin.

      She reminded him of a damn Botticelli painting. Innocent and sexy at the same time.

      She looked like trouble.

      He muttered an oath as he realized for the first time what he’d done. He’d picked a woman who didn’t want him—a woman who aggravated and intrigued the hell out of him—a woman who was beginning to make him question his own rules about “good girls.”

      She reached the bottom step, smiling at him a little nervously. “What do you think?”

      Images of creamy skin, tangled limbs and red hair blowing in the ocean breeze flashed in his mind. Stay cool, boy, or you’re cooked. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them, feeling in control once again. “You look fine, Abby.”

      Abby felt her eyes widen, her cheeks turning instantly scarlet. She looked down at her shoes. Fine? She’d just spent hours being plucked and curled and powdered, and the man had the nerve to tell her she looked fine? She didn’t expect him to tell her she looked stunning or anything, but pretty would’ve done it, or really good.

      Abby sighed inwardly. Oh, who was she kidding? She felt gorgeous for the first time in her life and she wanted him to tell her so. She wanted him to tell her that she looked beautiful—as beautiful as the models and actresses he dated. But what she got was “fine.”

      He’s your boss, Abby. You’re not here to get compliments, you’re here to work.

      Tanner raked a hand through his hair, his jaw tight. “We should talk.”

      “All right,” she said with the most professional nod she could manage.

      “Dinner’s almost ready.” He turned and headed down the hall. “Come with me.”

      Sure, this was a business thing, she reminded herself as she followed him down the hallway, through room after room. This wasn’t real. Tanner wasn’t her husband, this wasn’t her home, and she didn’t normally wear two-inch strappy sandals and a killer dress. But for the next several days she would, she did. She truly felt like a princess, and she was going to make the most of it.

      “I’d like to show you something,” Tanner said moments later as she followed him into what appeared to be his office. It was a gorgeous room, she thought, if you like the cool, clean, sparse look. Tall ceilings, white walls, impersonal artwork and a stone fireplace that looked as though it had never held a fire. And once again, there were no special items, no photographs of anyone anywhere.

      With its view of the ocean, open sliding-glass door and billowing curtains, she was certain she’d seen its like on the cover of Architectural Digest.

      And what a view, she mused, stepping outside on the balcony and breathing in the sea air. The show that Mother Nature was putting on tonight was spectacular. Sheets of red blazed across the darkening sky like the fuel tracks of a fighter jet—its mirror image a cool pink displayed below on the ocean’s surface.

      “Abby?”

      She turned sharply, realized she’d been lost in thought and left the balcony. “You must love living by the ocean.”

      He smiled and said, “I do,” then took out a velvet box from the top drawer and placed it on his desk. “I have rings for us.”

      Abby froze. Rings? She hadn’t even thought about—