One Night with Cinderella
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Niobia Bryant
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One
“One day I hope I’m as rich as I look right now.”
Monica Darby turned this way and that in the full-length, wood-framed mirror leaning against the wall of the spacious walk-in closet. The bright crimson of the couture gown she held in front of her body was so different from the dark tones she normally wore. With her free hand, she gathered her ponytail atop her head and sucked in her cheeks as she struck a dramatic model-like pose.
She felt like a little girl playing dress-up.
In the reflection, she caught sight of the price tag dangling from the sleeve. She checked it, not surprised to see it cost nearly a fourth of her annual salary. It was one of five extravagant garments delivered that morning. Each more glamorous and decadent than the last.
Monica imagined what it would be like to own such beautiful clothing, live in a luxurious home and jet all over the world at a whim.
Only in my dreams.
She reached up to hang the dress among the other expensive gowns, fearing being caught having a brief moment of folly into a lifestyle in which she lived on the fringe as the housekeeper to the powerful Cress family—a position she cherished because, in their home, she had found the stability she lacked growing up in foster care. With one last glance back at the closet to ensure it was pristine and in order, she turned and left the space, closing the French doors behind her.
Her sneaker-covered feet barely made any noise against the herringbone pattern of the polished hardwood floors as she crossed the suite to retrieve the caddie of her cleaning supplies. “Eight suites down and the kitchen to go,” Monica said to herself before leaving the room and entering the spacious den that centered the top-floor hall of the five-story town house in the prominent and historic Lenox Hill section of Manhattan’s Upper East Side.
The ten-thousand-square-foot home was quiet as she made her way to the elevator. She was the only in-house staff. The chef was out shopping, and all of the Cress family members were gone for the day. She had the peace she needed to clean without intrusion.
When the lift came to a stop, she opened the wrought-iron gate and stepped on, pulling the rolling caddie behind her before pressing the button for the finished basement level, where the items not sent out for dry cleaning were awaiting laundering. Her bedroom was located there, as well.
Ding.
She frowned when the elevator slowed. She thought she was alone and clearly, she was wrong. Her eyes widened as it came to a stop on the fourth floor and she was looking through the bronzed wrought iron at Gabriel Cress, known to everyone as Gabe. The middle son of Phillip and Nicolette Cress was busy looking down at his iPhone. She licked her lips as she stepped back until her spine was pressed to the wall and lowered her head. Her heart raced and thundered inside her chest so crazily that she feared he would hear it.
He looked up briefly and nodded his head at seeing her. “Mornin’,” he said, his voice deep and obligatory, as the wrought-iron gate squealed a bit at being opened.
Her pulse pounded. “Good morning, Mr. Cress,” she said, her voice soft as she kept her eyes on the tip of the sensible black sneakers she wore.
This gorgeous man made her so very nervous.
Monica wished she could fold herself into a much smaller version or fade into the woodwork lining the walls. Not that it mattered. She chanced a fleeting look up. He stood off to the side in front of her with his attention still focused on the screen of his phone. He barely noticed her. She was used to that. Men such as Gabe Cress—strong, handsome, sexy, wealthy and confident—were drawn to women so very unlike Monica the Housekeeper, with her all-black uniform and face free of makeup.
She let her eyes study his profile.
He was a handsome man with a strong resemblance to the actor Jesse Williams. Shortbread complexion. Grayish-blue eyes. Square jaw and high cheekbones. Soft mouth. Short haircut with just the shadow of a beard. Tall—over six feet—with an athletic frame that was well defined and perfectly dressed in a crisp navy shirt tucked into dark denims with a cognac belt and polished handmade shoes. It was his signature outfit, seemingly simple but still stylish and tailored.
It had been five years since she was hired by his mother, Nicolette, but she still had not got used to him. Or the scent of his cologne. The warm and spicy scent reached her without being loud and cloying. It made her tingle.
All of the five Cress sons were handsome, but it was only Gabe that sent her into a tizzy. Only him.
Grab a hold of yourself, Monica.
For her, being enclosed with him in the elevator was like standing in the open doorway of a plane before spreading her arms wide and leaping to feel that quick shift from nervous anticipation to the sweet glory of free-falling through the air.
He was overwhelming without even trying to be so.
The elevator slid to a smooth stop and he slipped his phone into the back pocket of his denims before opening the gate. He offered her a brisk, congenial nod as he strode away.
She released the breath she must have been holding, finding it shaky as she closed her eyes and lightly bit down on her bottom lip as she awaited recovery. She was used to it. The man just did it for her. She couldn’t explain it. It was quite unfamiliar. And she didn’t even want to want him.
But there it was.
That spark.
“Gabe and Monica sitting in a tree. He’s I-G-N-O-R-I-N-G me,” she said dryly before allowing herself a self-deprecating little chuckle as the elevator continued its descent to the basement.
Not that she wanted the attention of him or any other man. As far as she was concerned, love spelled nothing but a bunch of trouble.
She enjoyed her life of solitude. She spent her days keeping the family’s home organized and tidy before retiring to her maid quarters and enjoying a night of television or reading. She felt safe from the disappointment and hurt she’d felt all her life growing up in the foster care system, never feeling at home or fitting in...and wondering why her parents didn’t want her for themselves.
Monica pushed away the all-too-familiar pain she felt at being abandoned, thankful time had dulled it to just an ache. She shook her head a little as she stepped off the elevator into the basement, moving past the wine cellar, storage room and utility closet—every area grander than the next. She refused to give her unknown parents that type of power over her life—just as she had the numerous social workers, case managers and foster families she encountered as she was shifted from various group homes and foster families throughout her childhood.
She did not emotionally invest in anyone.
Love had let her down one time too many.
Look how my last relationship turned out.
As she rolled the caddie into the closet where she kept some of her cleaning supplies, she paused with her hand on the door. Remembering him.
James.
She rolled her eyes and shook her head, wishing life had rewind and delete buttons.
Once she aged out of the system at eighteen when the government deemed her an adult, Monica had been lucky enough to attend a community college and acquire a studio apartment, relying on school grants, loans and a part-time job to pay her way. Times had been tough and lean. Never had she felt so afraid that she wouldn’t be able to make it on her own but also so determined to enjoy her freedom. She had been a student there for two years when she’d met and fallen in love with James Gilligan, a handsome travel photographer who convinced her to drop out of college and go RVing across the country with him as he documented his adventures on his popular blog. Leaving school had been a huge choice, but she felt she finally had someone who loved her and hadn’t dared to risk losing him. Their travels and nomadic lifestyle lasted five years, filled with fun and spontaneity, until they traveled back to New York for a brief visit and she awakened one morning to discover he had left her behind to search for his next quest without her.
Monica grunted at her foolishness, hating how heartache and betrayal had left such an imprint. It’d been five years since she’d had to gather her wits, put aside her tears and make a new plan for her life. The advertisement for an in-house staff position had seemed like an answer to her prayers, providing a job and a place to stay. She applied and then thankfully accepted the position when it was offered.
Once she had work to focus on, she resolved to never give someone the chance to hurt her and leave her behind again.
Like her parents.
Like so many foster parents.
Like James.
Monica sighed as that poignant ache of bitter disappointment radiated across her chest. His treachery still affected her. She hated that so much.
She closed the door to the supply closet and moved over to open the door to the stylish and brightly lit laundry room, where she loaded two high-capacity washers with bed linen that she changed every day. While the machines quietly went to work, she walked to the other end of the basement to her quarters. It was a lovely little suite comprised of a bedroom, adjoining bathroom and small sitting area. She’d decorated the area in shades of yellow to give it more warmth, make it feel a little bit like her own, since it was the longest she’d ever been in one residence.
She pulled a small stack of envelopes from the front pocket of her apron to put on the side table near the recliner to sort through later. The family’s mail was left on an ostrich leather tray in the foyer, as was customary. Leaving her room, she closed the door and retraced her steps until she reached the stairs to make her way up to the modern and brightly lit kitchen on the first level. The space, with its dark wood against light walls, chrome appliances and bronzed fixtures, was as beautifully designed as the rest of the town house.
The family’s chef, Jillian Rossi, was out doing her daily shopping, and Monica always used that time to clean the kitchen from what little mess was left over from the family’s breakfast dishes. Before loading the dishwasher, she opened it to find the high-end cutlery she knew belonged to Jillian from the initials engraved on the handles. She spotted the chef’s leather carry case on the granite counter and retrieved it, undid the clasp and unrolled it.
A handwritten note was inside.
“‘The taste of you still lingers on my tongue,’” she read aloud.
Well, well, well, Jillian...
Monica furrowed her brow as she rolled the carry case back as it had been, wishing she’d never seen the note—or the embossed gold Cress, INC. logo at the top. In such a large, affluent family, whose members chose to do business and live together, secrets weren’t scarce. She’d seen and heard plenty in her five years. Hidden safes. Vices. Stubborn grudges. Business deals. Promises made. Promises broken. Even two of the brothers unknowingly dating the same sexy socialite. Discovering that one of the Cress men was enjoying a secret tryst with Jillian the Chef—complete with a handwritten note in this day and age—was light work in comparison.
It was none of her business, but Monica couldn’t help but wonder which one.
Phillip Jr.? Or Sean? Cole? Maybe Lucas?
She winced as she pictured Gabe passionately kissing Jillian. She had no right to the jealousy warming her stomach. If Gabe and Jillian were secret lovers then it was no concern of hers.
Right?
Right.
Still, at that moment, it was feeling easier said than done.
Gabe stroked his chin as he stared at the waterfall fountain at the end of the paved garden area. Winter was just truly beginning to break and the air was crisp and refreshing instead of biting and chilly. He sat at the long concrete table beneath the arched framework that covered the full thirty-two-foot length of the area with the leaves of bamboo trees offering the family privacy and shade when they were outdoors. The sounds of New York on the adjacent busy Lexington Avenue reached him, but it was vague background noise as he focused instead on his thoughts.
Serving as the president of the restaurant division of Cress, INC. made him responsible for making decisions that produced results. Phillip Cress Sr., his stalwart father and the company’s chief executive officer, expected nothing less and made that fact clear with all of his sons. Gabe was a strong-willed man with his own vision and ideas, but he had little patience. He was finding it tiresome proving himself worthy to a domineering father who expected nothing but blind allegiance.
Gabe wished his father knew his loyalty to his family existed because he loved his parents and his brothers above all and would do anything to see them happy. Making sacrifices wasn’t new. Gabe had always tried so very hard to be unproblematic for his parents. With five rowdy boys and a busy professional life that had led to stellar careers, his parents hadn’t needed an extra hassle. Another child to discipline. Another child to worry about. It had become his custom to keep his head tucked down, stick to himself and never disappoint the parents he admired. The accomplishments of his parents could not be overlooked or disrespected.
Phillip Cress Sr. and Nicolette Lavoie-Cress loved cooking second only to their five sons. Over the past fifty years they had established themselves as acclaimed and well-respected chefs, won Michelin stars and James Beard Awards, established many successful restaurants, and written more than two dozen bestselling cookbooks and culinary guides. As they began to slow down, the couple increasingly focused on growing the powerful culinary empire of Cress, INC. and diversifying their business to nationally syndicated cooking shows, cookware, online magazines, an accredited cooking school, which Nicolette operated, and a nonprofit foundation.
The couple had also passed their love of cooking on to their sons, who were all acclaimed chefs in their own right. Each son also played a role in the business. Gabe headed up the restaurant division. His oldest brother, Phillip Jr., ran the nonprofit, the Cress Family Foundation. Sean supervised the syndicated cooking shows. Cole oversaw the online magazines and websites. And their baby brother, Lucas, had just been appointed head of the cookware line.
But now Phillip Sr. was looking to one of them to groom as his successor to the Cress, INC. throne, and each of the Cress sons wanted the coveted prize of leading the family business into the future. And to have their father, who they all respected, give such a nod would be the ultimate testament and acknowledgment of their abilities. Still, it made for competitiveness and minor flare-ups among the brothers, which Gabe was finding tiresome. They had always been raised to be loving and loyal to one another. With each passing day, sadly, he saw less of that allegiance.
At times working and living together was a handful. Thus, his day of working from home and not at their corporate offices in Midtown Manhattan. He needed a breather. Of everyone in the family, he hated useless confrontations and arguing the most. He found it tedious.
His stomach grumbled, and he picked up his phone from where it sat atop his open files on the table. It was nearing lunch and he had skipped breakfast. Rising, he slid his phone in the front pocket of his tailored shirt, moved down the length of the garden and opened the sliding door of the glass wall of the dining room.
Across the dining room he spotted their housekeeper, Monica, closing the dishwasher and pressing the buttons to turn it on before she briskly walked over to the pantry. He hadn’t seen her moving about the kitchen when he was in the garden, but he wasn’t surprised. She was a great housekeeper, who they all trusted with their home and possessions, but she also made sure not to intrude on their lives. She barely spoke and rarely made eye contact. She was...skittish.
This morning in the elevator, if she had pressed her body back against the wall any more, she could have melded with it. It’s why he hadn’t bothered with much conversation. He hadn’t been sure she wouldn’t jump out of her own skin if he said too much.
Five years, and he doubted he’d spoken more than a dozen words to her in all that time.
Reaching the kitchen, Gabe opened the Sub-Zero to study the many contents for something to feed his hunger. He was almost tempted to prepare his own favorite dish of homemade ravioli stuffed with a mixture of wild mushroom, ricotta and parmesan cheese served in a bisque. Almost. It had been nearly three years since he departed his role as the head chef of the Midtown Manhattan CRESS restaurant. Cress, INC. came first. Gabe hardly ever cooked that much anymore. In fact, no one in the family did. There wasn’t time. Thus, the need for a family of chefs to have a chef on staff to cook for them.
With the release of a deep breath he acknowledged how much he missed being a chef. That alone was the clearest example of his loyalty to his family and his desire to help his parents further their dreams of a culinary empire.
“Oh. Sorry.”
He closed the door a bit and looked over his shoulder at Monica, standing in the entry to the pantry. Her eyes were wide with surprise before she looked down at the cleaning supplies she held in her hands.
“Jillian’s not here, Mr. Cress,” she said, her words rushed. Awkward.
He frowned. “Jillian? Do I need her permission to enter the kitchen?” he asked sternly, giving her an odd look before turning back to the fridge and removing a container of leftover ginger-lime carrots and another of seared scallops.
“No...no. Of course not. I just thought you were looking for her. Just...never mind,” she said, shaking her head as she set the supplies on the counter and began walking out of the room.
Annoyance sparked in him. This is ridiculous.
“Have I done something to offend you or make you so uneasy around me?” he asked, feeling as if she saw him as a wolf about to jump on his prey.
Of that, she shouldn’t worry. This shy and reserved woman unable to look him in the eye was hardly his type. He was tempted by fire and confident sex appeal. She appeared afraid of her own shadow.
Monica whirled, her face filled with her surprise. “Of course not, Mr. Cress,” she insisted.
Gabe was surprised by the sudden knot in his gut as he eyed the rare show of emotion she displayed. The first he’d seen in five years. It opened her face. Brought life and light to it. And interest. For the first time, he noticed she was pretty. If by instinct his eyes quickly took in all of her. A man studying a woman.
She favored Zoe Saldana. Medium brown complexion. Long dark brown hair pulled into a loose ponytail that emphasized her high cheekbones and doe-shaped eyes with long lashes. Beneath her black T-shirt and pants, he could tell she was tall and slender but curvy. He even found the flat mole near the corner of her left eye intriguing.
He wondered just what other emotion she hid beneath the surface. Passion? Desire? Pleasure? Satisfaction?
How would her face be transformed during her climax? Dazed eyes? Gaped mouth?
The thought of that caused his heart to skip a beat, as temptation rose with a quickness.
Easy, Gabe. Easy.
“I just wanted to make sure I’ve never done anything to make you uncomfortable with me,” he said, setting aside the allure of a subdued woman with hints of fire beneath the surface—a taste in women he had never known himself to have before.
She looked at him and visibly swallowed over a lump in her throat. “No. Never,” she assured him, her voice soft.
No. Not soft. Husky. Throaty.
Well, well, well. Who knew?
“I don’t want to interrupt your schedule,” Gabe said, crossing the kitchen to retrieve a plate from the glass-paned cabinet she stood beside. “I’m just getting some lunch because I’m working from home today.”
She stepped back from his sudden nearness.
He frowned a bit as he looked down at her. Their eyes met for a brief moment before she looked away. She had to be close to his age of thirty-two, so her nervousness piqued his curiosity. “Monica,” he said, his voice low.
She looked up at him. “Sir?” she said, wringing her hands together in front of her.
Oh.
Her truth was in the depths of her doe-shaped eyes.
Gabe was a man quite familiar with women. As a chef he was a connoisseur of wine, needing the right accoutrement to the food he created. His experience with women reached the same expert level. Standing before him was a woman made nervous because she liked him. Was aware of him. Desired him.
Of that he was sure.
His body warmed over at the thought of her interest. He cleared his throat and moved back across the kitchen to plate his food before warming it in the microwave.
Bzzzzzz.
He reached for his vibrating phone and checked the caller ID. It was an old acquaintance calling. Felicity. He thought of the tall and shapely beauty with big eyes, lips and thighs, but didn’t answer the call. It had been weeks since they’d spent time together, and he wasn’t interested in striking up a new round of their on-again, off-again dalliance. She’d wanted nothing more than access to his upscale lifestyle, and he’d been satisfied with beautiful arm candy who was very eager to do nothing more than keep a smile on his face. Her first not-so-subtle hint of marriage had cooled his ardor.
Gabe was as adamant about his success in business as he was about avoiding a serious relationship. His romantic history had proven he was unable to balance the expectations of love and the duties of his career without someone suffering, so he chose the latter, enjoying the prestige, the challenge and the admiration of a father who, like himself, expected nothing but the very best.
Felicity had unknowingly served as a reminder of the sophisticated and sexy women he favored. Very unlike Monica.
Not that it mattered. She was a part of the family staff and off-limits.
He looked over to where she had stood and wasn’t surprised to find the spot now empty.
That’s for the best.
The last thing he wanted was to encourage her and then have her be disappointed when nothing came of her crush. He was more interested in her skill at organizing and cleaning his private bedroom suite than having her in it beneath him on his bed as he sated her desire.
Our desire, he admitted to himself.
Had things been different—time and place—and had she had a little more flash and sass about her, Gabe knew he would’ve gladly satisfied the craving he saw in her eyes.
