Cinderella's Lucky Ticket. Melissa James

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СКАЧАТЬ harassed suit-man wrung his hands again. “Please, Miss Miles, if you’ll only wait till we sort this out—”

      The time-warp lady stopped chewing her finger, pulled off her shades and squared her shoulders, as if for courage—and her messy bun disintegrated. Trails of glossy, dark, twisting curls fell around her face—and she seemed to grow younger, prettier, before his bemused gaze. “Sure.” Her breathy voice brushed past Ben’s ears with a wickedly sexy effect. “I’ll, um, just wait here until you sort it out.”

      Ben leaned on the doorpost in deep, quiet enjoyment, watching the queer pageant unfold before him—the nervous wreck in the doorway, and Mighty Mouse on his sofa. “Can I help you?”

      “Yes. You can.” The aforesaid mouse glared at him with indignant blue eyes, her creamy face flushed and rosy. Yeah, she was young all right, and like no drudge he’d ever seen—more like a babe in hiding. “You can get out of my house!”

      His eyebrows shot up. O-okay. This gal needed a diagnosis, and fast. She’d focused her anger onto a complete stranger—and she’d called him a thief. Paranoid delusions? “Sorry, Miss—Miles, was it? I think you’ve made a mistake.”

      “I didn’t make a mistake.” She pointed with a stabbing motion at the suit-man. “They gave you my ticket!”

      His gaze followed the accusatory finger. “Ticket?” he asked of the suit-man, hoping for a sensible answer, since the cutie in the cardigan appeared to be in severe need of Prozac—no, Xanax. She needed calming down…yeah, if she got her hands on any uppers right now she’d ruin his chance at future fatherhood.

      The man smiled in half-cringing apology. “Mr. Capriati, do you remember me? I’m Ken Hill, director of Lakelands Children’s Charities Sweepstakes Draw—”

      “Of course! I thought I knew your face.” Ben stepped forward to shake hands. “What’s this about my ticket?”

      “My ticket!”

      He swiveled back to meet her glare head-on—and then he couldn’t tear his gaze away. Maybe it was the wild dark curls cascading around her waiflike face in such sweet disarray, or the pink-lipped half pout, all but begging to be kissed. “Fine, your ticket,” he agreed, to placate her.

      She smiled in triumph at Mr. Hill. “See? He admits it!”

      “Whoa.” He lifted a hand. “I don’t admit to anything until I know what I’m admitting to.”

      She tossed her head. “You stole my prizes!”

      “Uh-huh.” He tried not to grin. This gal was nuts! Cute, but nuts. “Can you explain how I managed that when we’ve never even met?”

      “Okay, it’s his fault!” She pointed at Mr. Hill who still stood dithering in the entryway.

      “Well, um—” Mr. Hill stammered, “it seems there’s been some confusion with the winning ticket in your draw, Mr. Capriati. It appears you and Miss Miles received the same numbered ticket.”

      “It’s my ticket!”

      Ben smiled, trying to soothe her. “How about we let Mr. Hill tell his story before we fight over whose ticket it is?”

      Mr. Hill’s wrinkled face lightened, looking intensely grateful for the intervention. “We’ve been experiencing, ah, technical difficulties with the system of ticket distribution—”

      Cardigan Cutie jumped in again. “What he means is their lawyer embezzled all the money set aside for new computers, and the system crashed the day they made up our tickets.”

      “Uh-huh. Go on, Mr. Hill,” he murmured.

      Mr. Hill sighed. “Unfortunately, Miss Miles is right. Our computers have now been replaced, but the day we sent out your tickets the old computers glitched, and sent out two copies each of twelve sets of tickets, but with different names on each set. The glitch affected the winning ticket, plus the one-off prizes. At the moment, we’re unsure to which of you the win belongs. Miss Miles came to our office this morning—”

      “Threatening litigation,” she said. How did she manage to sound smug, breathless, nervous, exhilarated and terrified at once? “They didn’t notify me about the mix-up. They hoped I’d never find out!” She lifted an eyebrow as Mr. Hill squirmed. “W-well?”

      Ben looked into her eyes. Calm her down, or there’s no telling what she’ll do next! “Can we please let Mr. Hill finish what he’s got to say first?”

      The girl tossed her head, her face mutinous…and this time he couldn’t hold back the grin. Flying dark curls, roses-and-cream skin, pouty mouth, big, scornful Irish eyes and a sinful whisky voice against a crazy circus getup. Man, she was right out of the ordinary—and her apparent addiction to possessive italics only added to her unconscious appeal. With the right outfit, she’d hit the big-time honey league—and if she’d shown up for any other reason, he might’ve helped her to discover the fact. As a lifetime connoisseur of good-looking women—but only in the past seven years when he found a spare minute or two—he’d rate this one at least a 9, maybe 9.5 out of 10. Apart from the charity-bin duds, of course.

      “Um,” Mr. Hill went on, “since this has no precedent, I explained to Miss Miles that we’ll need time to sort out the legalities. But she insisted on coming to the house—”

      “Or I’d take it to the media.” She looked absurdly pleased with her inventiveness, like a little girl who’d pushed a chair to the cookie jar. “The ticket’s as much mine as yours. These prizes should be mine. So here I am—here I stay—and you can’t make me go. Possession is nine-tenths of the law.” She looked at him in defiant, half-scared challenge, as if she’d surprised even herself with her own audacity. As if she’d scooped up a dozen cookies in her hands already, and expected him to snatch them away from her any second.

      That was it. He was gone. Ben’s mouth twitched once, then again, before he gave in and burst out laughing.

      She jerked up on the sofa and clutched the sides of her cardigan together, gaping at him in the most comic, kissable indignation he’d ever seen. “You’re laughing at me?”

      “Can’t—can’t—” He doubled over, hanging on to the wall for balance, his stomach hurting with the uncontrollable gusts of laughter. He couldn’t figure out if she belonged in a museum or an asylum. “You’re a riot, babe. A five-foot-two cardigan-clad home invader, and I can’t make you go?”

      A shudder ran through her. “Don’t patronize me, Capriati—” his name spoken in total distaste “—and don’t call me babe. It’s a demeaning term designed to relegate women to sexual objects.”

      “Okay, Miss Miles,” he laughed, amused by her indignation, and her dislike of him—meeting a woman less than eager to please was a rare thing for him. “I agree possession is nine-tenths of the law—but you’ve missed a vital point. With myself also in possession, you only have four and a half of those nine…and since I possess the keys I can pick you up, dump you on the doorstep and retain my nine without a hassle.”

      She gasped, jumped to her feet and pointed at him like a lawyer in court. “Try it, you ignorant ape. I’ll sue you for assault. With Mr. Hill to act as witness in court for me—” Mr. Hill visibly paled at her words, and edged toward the door “—I’ll get everything!”

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