A Millionaire for Cinderella(14)

“Feel like dancing?”

“I thought you said you wanted to leave right after the ceremony.”

He did. He also told himself putting his arms around Patience again was the worst idea ever, but now he couldn’t think of anything he’d rather do. “I changed my mind. A few dances might be fun.”

“I—” He’d caught her off guard, and she was struggling with what to say. The hesitancy made his palm actually start to sweat like a high schooler.

“Okay,” she said finally. “Why not?”

His thrill over her acceptance was like a high schooler’s, too.

He led her to the far edge of the dance floor, where the crowd wouldn’t swallow them up, and pulled her close. Last night’s embrace had been tentative and accidental, but here on the dance floor, he was free to hold her as close and for as long as he liked.

They moved in sync, their bodies slipping together in a perfect fit. Not surprisingly, Patience moved with a natural rhythm, her lower half moving back and forth like the waves in an ocean. Or like a lover meeting his thrusts. Stuart rested his hand on her hip and savored every shift beneath his fingers.

The song ended, and another ballad began. And another. They danced and swayed until the deejay announced it was time to say good-night.

Patience lifted her head from his shoulder. Her eyes were as bright as he’d ever seen then, with a sheen that looked suspiciously like moisture. “Thank you for chasing Dr. Tischel out of my head,” she whispered.

That was all it took. Something inside him started to fall.



They walked up Beacon Street in silence, both of them pretending to act matter-of-fact even though they both knew their relationship had changed. How and why could wait until later. Right now, Stuart was content listening to the click-clack of Patience’s heels on the sidewalk and reliving the feel of her curves beneath his hands. As for Patience, she was letting her fingers glide along the fence lining Boston Public Garden. “A fancy cake for Mrs. F,” she said in singsongy tone under her breath.

“Whose Mrs. F?” he asked.

She flashed him a nostalgic-looking smile. “It’s from a bedtime story I used to read to Piper about a man delivering cakes around Boston. A fancy cake for Mrs. F who lived on Beacon Hill. I think of the line whenever I see this row of houses.”

Another memory involving raising her sister. Interesting how easily she shared those memories yet said so little about her own childhood. Beyond what he’d pulled out of her over dinner, that is. It was as if she didn’t have a childhood of her own, Considering the shadows he’d seen in her eyes last night, maybe she hadn’t.

So many pieces of her he didn’t understand, so many parts unrevealed.

The story she described was one you read to a young child. “How old is your sister anyway?”

“Piper? Twenty-two.”

Eight years younger. “So you read your sister a bedtime story when you were a kid?”

There was a stutter in her step. “Yeah, I did.”

“I’m guessing your mom worked nights.”

“Um...not really. She was just...busy.” The evasiveness had returned, only this time what she didn’t say came through loud and clear. If he had to guess, he’d say she’d started raising Piper long before their mother passed away. A child raising a child. He’d been right; she hadn’t had a childhood of her own. She was like those damn dogs on the humane society poster, only instead of sympathy or guilt twisting in his gut, he wanted to wrap Patience in his arms and hold her tight and tell her she never had to be on her own again.

“I’m—”

“Don’t.” Stepping in front of him, she cut him off. “You’re about to say you’re sorry, and I don’t want the sympathy.”

“Okay, no sympathy.” He understood. Sympathy was too much like pity. “How about admiration?”

“How about nothing? I did what I had to do. Trust me, I didn’t do anything special,” she said, turning away.

Except that Stuart didn’t trust her, or had she forgotten? Had he forgotten for that matter?

They kept walking until they reached the State House, the moon reflecting off its golden dome. Around the corner, Stuart spotted a trio of staggering silhouettes making their way from Park Street station. Patience was walking a few feet ahead. Her curves made her the perfect target for drunken comments. Stepping up his pace, he positioned himself on her right, creating a buffer. The group came closer, and he saw that two of the three were women teetering on high heels. The pair clung to the shoulders of the man in the middle, a pasty-looking blond who looked like he spent most of his time in dimly lit places. Their raucous laughter could be heard from ten feet away.

Stuart stole a look in Patience’s direction before slipping his arm around her waist. She looked back, but didn’t say anything.

As luck would have it, the trio reached the signal light the same time as they did. The man made no attempt to hide his ogling. “Come join the pah-ty, baby,” he slurred, alcohol making his Boston accent thicker. “We’re gonna go all night.”

Patience’s body turned rigid. He tightened his grip on her waist, letting her know he’d keep her safe.

The drunk slurred on, oblivious. “This dude knows what I’m talking about, doncha? Life’s too short. Gotta grab the fun while you can. I did.” He slapped one of the women on the rear, and she let out a giggly yelp. “Me and these ladies are just getting started.”

Just then, a public works truck drove up, its bright headlights lighting their slice of the street.

“Oh, my God,” one of the women cried out. “I know you!” Pushing herself free, she stumbled closer, her oversize breasts threatening to burst free from her tiny camisole top. “You work at Feathers. I danced right after you. Chablis, remember?”

Patience didn’t reply. She stared straight ahead. When the light changed, she stepped off the curb and started walking. Stuart had to step quickly to keep up.

“What’s the matter, you too good to talk to me now? That it?” Chablis asked as she followed. “Hey, I’m talkin’ to you.”

A crimson-nailed hand reached out to grab Patience’s shoulder, but she quickly turned and dodged the woman’s touch. “You have the wrong person,” she hissed.

When they reached the opposite side of the street, Chablis looked to make one more attempt at conversation only to have her friend tug her in the opposite direction. “Come on, baby,” he slurred. “We don’t need them. We got better things to do.”

“Yeah, Chablis,” the other woman whined. “Give it up. That witch ain’t owning up to nuthin’.”

“But I know her,” Chablis insisted, as if her knowledge was the most important discovery in the world. As she let her friends drag her away, she continued to swear and complain about being ignored. “She always did think she was better than us,” Stuart heard her mutter.

“Sorry about that,” he said to Patience.

“It’s no big deal. They’re just a bunch of drunks.”

Perhaps, but the pallor of her skin said they’d upset her more than she let on. Poor thing had probably had her fill of drunks by this point.

A beer can came hurtling in their direction, rattling the sidewalk a few feet shy of where they stood. “Hey!” Chablis yelled, her voice sharp in the night. “Does your boyfriend know he’s dating a stripper?”

Stuart might have laughed if Patience hadn’t stopped in her tracks. When he looked, he saw the color had drained from her face.

A sick feeling hit him in his stomach. “She’s got you confused with someone else, right?” he asked.

Even in the dark of night, Patience’s eyes told him everything he needed to know. There was no mistake.

Chablis was telling the truth.





CHAPTER SIX

“IT’S TRUE, ISN’T IT?” he asked. “You were a—a...”

Stripper? He couldn’t even say the word, could he?

Stupid Chablis. Patience never did like the woman. For a second, she considered blaming everything on the rambling of a drunken trio, but one look at Stuart’s face snuffed that idea. The thought had been planted in his head, and no amount of denial would chase it away. Eventually, he would dig up the truth. No reason to drag the ordeal out longer than necessary.

How stupid for her to think the night would end on a good note. Like she would ever earn a fairy-tale ending.

Folding her arms across her chest, Patience held on to what little dignity she could. “We prefer the term ‘exotic dancer,’” she said, pushing her way past him.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“Where do you think? To the brownstone to pack my things.” With luck she would get there before the tears pressing the back of her eyes broke free. Now that Stuart knew about her background, he was bound to ask her to leave her job with Ana. Hadn’t he said that he didn’t want Dr. Tischel anywhere near his aunt. Surely he would feel the same about Patience.

Well, she might have just lost her job, and her home, but she would not lose her composure—not on the streets of Boston and not in front of him.

There were footsteps, and Stuart was at her shoulder, grabbing her arm much like Dr. Tischel had. With a hiss, she pulled away. The look of regret passing over his features was small compensation.