Page 52 of Cinderella Hired for His Revenge

The elevator swooshed up, the doors opening to the Cantor Rooftop Garden Bar. Long white tables had been set up with matching chairs decorated with delicate strands of ivy. Café lights had been strung above the tables, creating an intimate glow against the backdrop of the greenery of Central Park and the New York City skyline standing proudly against the slowly pinkening sky as the sun began its descent toward the horizon.

Pride chased away some of the chaos reeling through her body. Small glass bowls full of roses offset by tiny clusters of white blooms softened the atmosphere of the cocktail tables. They also made sure the bouquets on the dinner tables, clusters of snapdragons, freesia, scented geraniums and other blooms with Brazil’s national flower, the yellow ipê flower, at the heart of the arrangement took center stage.

When the sun set, the votive candles were lit and the lights of New York sparkled in the background, it would be perfect. She’d arranged to have the photographer, who would be floating around the event, take photos she could share on social media and her website later.

A quick walk-around revealed nothing wrong with the flowers. They stood tall and proud, leaves lush, petals unfurled into full bloom.

Probably just an overeager assistant, Alexandra thought as she walked back toward the elevator.

She pushed the button. Nothing happened. With a dejected sigh, she pushed it again. Still nothing. She walked over to the door that led to the stairs. The door stayed firmly shut.

Great. She was stuck on the roof of the Met Museum in jeans and a T-shirt with less than an hour before the event of the spring kicked off with some of the wealthiest prospective clients coming up in their finest couture to party the night away.

All under the discerning eye of the man she loved and whose heart she had broken not once, but twice.

Her heartbeat kicked into overdrive as she turned and looked around for an escape. Perhaps there was a fire ladder or some other way down.

Awareness whispered across her senses and sank into her skin. She inhaled and his subtle, sensual amber scent surrounded her.

“You locked the doors.”

“I did.”

His deep voice rolled through her body and filled her veins with its seductive warmth. It took every ounce of willpower not to whip around and throw herself into his arms, bury her face against his neck.

“You don’t need to sound so smug.”

She kept her eyes on the luxurious towers that comprised Billionaires’ Row at the southern end of Central Park. The blue glass panels of one of the skyscrapers glittered under the golden glow of the setting sun, lights winking on in the various windows as people continued on with their lives, oblivious to the drama playing out just a couple miles away. If she kept her attention focused on anything but the man behind her, maybe she would make it through this encounter without embarrassing herself.

“I’m anything but smug right now.”

The thin thread of vulnerability in his voice, almost, but not quite masked by his gruff tone, cut her to her core and ripped her from the present into the past. Back to a library filled with expensive books that had hardly been touched aside from a daily dusting by the housekeeping staff, a diamond chandelier turned up to a blinding brightness and her father sitting in his favorite straight-backed leather chair, his hands resting on the armrests as if he was seated on a throne.

Details she had fixated on to avoid the crushing pain flickering in the eyes of her lover. Pain replaced by cold, hard contempt when she’d stood her ground and echoed what her father had told her to say.

I don’t love you. I never did. You were just a fling.

The words still tasted bitter on her tongue. Uncertainty crawled beneath her skin, settling in the pit of her stomach like a coiled snake about to strike. She’d caused him so much pain over the years. Was telling him now how she felt the right thing to do? Or was she setting him up for more heartbreak?

“You ran away.”

His statement held no acrimony or accusation. More an observation, a probe.

She sucked in a deep breath. She owed him so much, including the truth.

“I did run away.” She swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. I...” Another deep breath, and then she summoned every ounce of strength she had as she turned to face him.

God, I miss him.

The sight of him hit her like a freight train. He looked so unbearably handsome dressed in a burgundy dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, displaying his tanned forearms. Arms that had cradled her so tenderly, had made her feel simultaneously strong and cherished. His black tuxedo pants were fitted to his muscular legs, stylish yet sexy.

And his face... Her fingers ached to trail over the strong line of his jaw, the sharply cut cheekbones, the broad swath of his forehead and into his thick black hair, smoothing the lines that had formed at the corners of his eyes as she told him that no matter what happened between them, he had done it. He had achieved everything he’d told her he would and more. She ached for the pain he’d suffered even as pride sang through her veins at all he had overcome.

How could he not see what an incredible man he’d been over the years, from novice gardener and aspiring entrepreneur to successful business professional? Would he ever see himself the way she saw him? Or would he always see himself as he had that horrific night in the library: a failure, a reject?

She steeled herself against her body’s reaction to his presence. He’d brought up the topic of their relationship. She might as well say what she’d decided to say. Let the cards fall and, when he rejected her as she’d rejected him, she could go home and comfort herself with a hot bath and a very large glass of wine.

“I have some things I need to say.”

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