Page 6 of One Night with Cinderella

Upon reaching the town house, under the cloak of darkness broken up by towering streetlamps, Gabe jogged up the stately steps and pressed his thumb to the biometric sensor to unlock the wrought-iron door and enter the marbled foyer. The length of the entire first floor was dimly lit with small pockets of light, breaking the darkness of night. With long strides he made his way across the wood floors of the living room through to the spacious chef’s kitchen.

On top of the island counter awaited a case of champagne and a dozen flutes.

Whistling, he grabbed a bottle and a flute to carry over to the elevator in the corner. He paused as he stepped on the lift and eyed the rear wall. He remembered that day when he’d walked in and barely noticed Monica standing there with her back pressed against it, as if trying to blend into it. A day like so many others. What was different was later that day, in the kitchen, he saw her—really saw her—for the first time.

And he had liked what he’d seen.

Still do.

He frowned, turning as he held the bottle and glass between the fingers of one hand and pressed the illuminated button for the rooftop with the other. The elevator gently shifted upward as he remembered the look of desire in her eyes and how his heart had raced at the awareness that quiet, reliable Monica had a hidden desire for him.

The thought of her made his gut clench.

Her beauty was subtle. Quiet. But once recognized? Not to be denied.

He released a breath and shifted back and forth in his stance.

What was most important about Monica Darby was her aptitude at her job as their housekeeper. How she kept her head tucked down and completed her tasks without disturbing their lives or breaking their trust in her. Many times his mother had raved that she was integral to their busy lives, even going above and beyond what was asked. The house ran like a well-oiled machine because of her quietly completed tasks.

That mattered more than her doe-shaped eyes, heated by the fire of desire.

Ding.

The elevator slowed to a stop. With his free hand he opened the gate and stepped out onto the rooftop terrace that spanned the twenty-two-foot width of the building. The air was calm, not too hot, and the sounds of the city echoed as he moved past the open seating area and around the glasshouse.

At the sight of Monica leaning against the wrought-iron railing, looking over at Central Park, he paused. A spring wind blew and caused the hem of her floor-length cotton robe to lift a bit. Her hair was loose down her back. There was a hint of a smile at her lips, and the moonlight cast a sweet glow upon her profile as the fairy lights adorning the pergola seemed to twinkle behind her.

It was a little endearing and magical.

Like one of those romance movies his sister-in-law, Raquel, loved to watch.

Monica looked toward him just as he was about to turn, leaving her to her solitude.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Cress,” she said, shifting to face him. “I thought the family was out for the night.”

Her robe and the high neck of the gown she wore beneath it was all very prim and proper. Very sedate. Very reserved. Very Monica.

“They are. I’m not. Well, not anymore,” he said, holding up the bottle and flute. “Wanted to enjoy a moment alone before everyone got back.”

She nodded in understanding. “I’ll leave you to it,” she said, tucking her hair behind her right ear as she walked toward him.

“We launched our newest restaurant, CRESS X, tonight,” he said, surprised at the need to fill the silence.

Monica glanced up at him with an impish look. “I know,” she said. “Congratulations.”

Of course she knew. He doubted there was much she didn’t know about everyone in the family. Thus the nondisclosure agreement she was required to sign when she was first hired.

There was a sudden squeal of car tires from down below.

They both quickly moved to the railing to look at the street. A bright red sports car swerved to the right of a blue convertible before racing away.

“The aftermath of a near collision,” Gabe said, glancing over at her, standing beside him.

“Hopefully everyone will get home safe,” she said.

Gabe took in her high cheekbones, the soft roundness of her jaw and the tilt of her chin. The scent of something subtle but sweet surrounded her. He forced his eyes away from her and cleared his throat. “Hopefully,” he agreed as he poured a small amount of champagne into the flute.

“I’ll leave you to celebrate,” Monica said.

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