Operation Cinderella by Hope Tarr Page B

Wikipedia entry, he was thirty-four, eight years older than she. Still, thirty-four was young. It seemed, though, that he must not feel it. “I know,” she found herself admitting, and the weird thing was she actually did know. She might be newly twenty-six, but since turning sixteen and coping with all the crap that had gone down during that pivotal, disastrous year, she’d felt older than her age—a world-weary soul locked inside a young woman’s body. Wearing edgy clothes and makeup was like putting a patina over the pain—it held in the hurt but also kept more from seeping in. Now and for the next six weeks, that buffer would be gone.
    The walk sign flashed on, and they crossed. Samantha flew away from the flagpole and bolted over to her father. “Daddy, there’s a sale on at Express. I really need—”
    “Absolutely nothing.” She started to object, but he cut her off with a shake of his head. “Your room’s packed so tight, stuff’s spilling out into the hallway. You clean up that mess and then maybe we’ll talk about shopping.”
    Samantha sputtered a “so not fair” and stalked off. Watching her head for the ramp leading to the parking deck, Mannon turned to Macie. This time his smile didn’t come close to reaching his eyes. “Speaking of nostalgia, would you believe, Miss Gray, that my daughter was once the sweetest child on God’s green earth?”
    Macie resisted the urge to reach up and lay a comforting hand on that broad and obviously burdened shoulder. “Weren’t we all, Dr. Mannon?”
    .
    They caught up with Samantha at Mannon’s white Ford Explorer in an upper tier of the station’s garage. Once they cleared the deck and turned onto Massachusetts Avenue, they made it to the Watergate in less than twenty minutes despite the heavy traffic. Macie had to admit she was impressed, as much by Mannon’s choice of unpretentious vehicle as by his urban driving skills. So far nothing about him was as she’d expected. In light of her mission, that wasn’t necessarily a good thing.
    He swung into his reserved space in the condo’s underground garage, got out to open Macie’s passenger side door, and then led the way to the elevator for his eastside tower apartment.
    “Home, sweet home,” he said, opening the condo’s door.
    Macie stepped inside the cool, marbled foyer. “This is beautiful,” she said, trying not to gawk. “And what a great location.”
    She glimpsed a dining room of gleaming, wide-planked wooden floors and high ceilings offset with crown molding. A sunken great room led off from the eating area. Carpeted in wall-to-wall plush beige, it was furnished with an overstuffed leather sectional sofa, matching chairs, and a glass-topped coffee table. True to Mannon’s word, a huge wall-mounted flat screen TV dominated the living area. Drawn drapes revealed sliding glass doors and, beyond them, a bird’s eye view of the Kennedy Center. Spewing conservative doctrine was some cash cow. The place must have cost a mint.
    He tossed the car keys on the hallway table. “I’m still getting used to the feeling of being hemmed in.”
    Macie swallowed a snort. Hemmed in! Her six hundred square foot East Village studio walkup could fit comfortably inside his foyer. Rather than say so, she turned to study an abstract landscape, the oil-on-canvas covering most of the far wall. Other than a few framed photos set about, the main rooms were devoid of dust-collecting decorative items, which should make them easier to keep clean.
    Mannon called out to Samantha, who’d drifted into the living room, the TV remote already in hand. “I need to talk to Miss Gray—in private.”
    Macie looked up and saw Samantha shrug. “Knock yourselves out.” She dropped the remote and stomped toward a hallway. Seconds later a door slammed.
    Mannon kneaded the bridge of his nose. His eyes, Macie observed, looked tired as well as a shade lighter than earlier. Once again she was hit by the powerful pull to somehow