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The Cinderella Act

      JENNIFER LEWIS has been dreaming up stories for as long as she can remember and is thrilled to be able to share them with readers. She has lived on both sides of the Atlantic and worked in media and the arts before she grew bold enough to put pen to paper. She would love to hear from readers at [email protected]. Visit her website at www.jenlewis.com.

      For Jordan

       One

      “Are you sure this is safe?”

      Annie tried to keep her eyes off Sinclair Drummond’s enticing backside as he climbed the rickety wooden stairs to the attic.

      “No.” He flashed her a grin that made her knees wobble. “Especially with the curse hanging over our heads.”

      “I guess I’ll take my chances.” As his employee, Annie Sullivan could hardly refuse. She stepped onto the first rung of the hand-hewn stairs that were barely more than a ladder. They led up into the ceiling of the old barn, which was attached to the house so Drummond ancestors didn’t have to face bitter winds howling in from Long Island Sound while tending to their animals. Now all it contained was an impressive collection of spiderwebs and brittle horse tack. The steps creaked alarmingly. “Have you ever been up here?” She hadn’t, which was strange in itself.

      Sinclair reached the top and pushed open a trap door. “Sure. When I was a kid. I used to hide up here when my parents argued.”

      Annie frowned. She couldn’t imagine his quiet, dignified mother raising her voice, but she’d never met his father. He’d died in some kind of accident years ago.

      “I doubt anyone’s been up here since.” He disappeared into the dark hole, and she climbed the stairs behind him with a growing sense of anticipation. A light snapped on, filling the opening with bright light. “I’m glad that still works. I didn’t fancy searching by candlelight.” Rain drummed on the shake roof overhead. His voice sounded far away, and she hurried to catch up to him. Her head cleared the entrance and she saw a row of uncovered bulbs dangling from the center beam of the windowless attic. Boxes and crates were piled along the sides, among disused tables, chairs and other, less identifiable pieces of furniture. The far wall was almost hidden behind a stack of big leather trunks bearing steamer labels. Despite the size of the room, very little of the wood floor was visible.

      “So this is what three hundred years’ worth of pack rats leave behind them. Where do we start?” Her fingers tingled with anticipation at rifling through the Drummond family’s possessions. Which was funny, since that’s what she did every day in her job. Of course dusting and polishing silver wasn’t nearly as exciting as opening an old steamer trunk filled with mothballs and mystery.

      Sinclair lifted the lid of a chest, which appeared to be filled with folded quilts. “Hell if I know. I suppose we just start plowing through and hope for the best.” He’d rolled up his sleeves, and she watched his muscular forearm reach boldly into the fabric. “The cup fragment is made of metal, apparently. Possibly silver, but more likely pewter. It doesn’t have any inherent value.”

      His shirt strained against his strong back as he reached deeper. Annie’s heart rate quickened. Why did her boss have to be so gorgeous? It wasn’t fair. She’d worked for him for six years and he’d only grown more handsome with age. He was thirty-two and his thick, dark hair didn’t bear a single strand of gray, despite his two expensive divorces.

      “And it’s supposed to be cursed?” Annie suppressed a shiver as she glanced around. Her Irish ancestors would be crossing themselves.

      “It’s the family that’s cursed, not the cup.” Sinclair lifted his head and shot her a disarming glance. “Three hundred years of misery, which can apparently be lifted if the three parts of this ancient cup are put back together.” He snorted. “I think it’s a load of rubbish, but my mom is really excited about it. She’s sure it will change all our lives.”

      “I was glad to hear she’s doing better. Did they ever find out what made her so sick?”

      “A rare tropical disease, apparently, similar to cholera. She’s lucky to be alive. She’s still quite weak so I’ve told her she should come out here for some rest.”

      “Absolutely, I’d be happy to take care of her.”

      “I’m hoping she’ll come nose around up here herself. Then you won’t have to do all the work.”

      Annie’s heart sank a little. So she couldn’t look forward to a summer in the attic watching Sinclair’s broad hands reaching into mysterious boxes. She’d worked here for six years, yet on some level they were almost strangers. She loved being alone with him when there were no guests to entertain and she got a glimpse of a more relaxed Sinclair. The search for the cup seemed like a great opportunity to get to know him better. Instead, she’d be up here sweating under the rafters by herself. Still, the history all around her was intriguing. She walked over to a tall woven basket and lifted the lid. Coiled rope filled the inside, and as she pulled at it, she could imagine the hands that wound this rope in an era before machines. Everything around them must tell a story. “Why does she think the family is cursed? You all seem very successful.”

      Her own family would probably kill for a fraction of the abundance the Drummonds enjoyed.

      “The Drummonds have done all right for themselves over the years. An old family legend has my mom convinced, however, that we’re all cursed, which is why she got so sick.” He lifted out a pile of clothes and she blinked at the powerful muscles in his thighs, visible through his pressed khakis, as he leaned to touch the bottom of the trunk. She startled as he suddenly looked up. “And why none of us can stay married for long.” His blue-gray eyes shone with a wry mix of humor and remorse. “She’s on a quest to unearth the three pieces of the cup and put them back together. She’s sure it will turn things around for the Drummonds.” He shoved the clothes back in the trunk and slammed the lid. “Of course I don’t believe in the curse but I’d do anything to help her recover, and this has her really excited so I promised to help.”

      “That’s sweet of you.”

      “Not really.” He shoved a hand through his hair as he surveyed the piles of debris left over from former lives. “If it keeps her occupied she won’t start nagging me to marry again.”

      Annie had watched grimly as he’d courted and dated his calculating and phony second wife. She wasn’t sure she could stand to go through that again. “I suppose she’s desperate for grandchildren.”

      “Yes, though you have to wonder why. Is it really necessary to carry the curse through to another generation?” His crooked smile made her smile, too. Of course his mother wanted grandchildren to spoil and fuss over. Though she wasn’t likely to ever get any, if Sinclair’s taste in women was anything to go by. She’d never met his first wife, but Diana Lakeland wasn’t the type to risk her figure on a pregnancy. She’d married Sinclair for the wealth and prestige that made him one of New York’s most eligible bachelors, then grown tired of him when he didn’t want to jet around the world attending parties every night.

      If only he could see he was wasted on those spoiled princesses. She couldn’t tell him that, though. It was part of her job to be friendly, even intimate. But she also had to know where to draw the line between professional and personal, and never cross it.

      She moved away from the basket of rope—more than enough to hang yourself with—and lifted a small wooden box from a high shelf. She opened the lid and found a cache of what looked like hairpins. Expensive ones,