The Cinderella Act

“You should dress up more often,” Sinclair said gruffly.

“I don’t really get the chance.” Annie glanced across the room, where she could see a partial reflection in the mirror on the large wardrobe. She looked imposing in the long dress, and the dramatic blue brought out red-gold highlights in her hair. Sinclair’s tall form blocked one half of the view, his broad shoulders in a striped shirt concealing the cleavage he admired. From this angle they almost looked like a couple, the distance between them foreshortened as if they were pressed together.

Like that could ever happen.

She attempted another carefree laugh, and again it vanished in the air, which suddenly felt hot and oppressive. Sinclair’s frown deepened, and she shivered under his fierce stare. Words failed her as their gaze locked for a second, two seconds, three …

Sinclair’s lips met hers with sudden force as his arms gathered her close. She melted, her mouth welcoming his and kissing him back with six years of unspent passion.

I’m kissing Sinclair.

Dear Reader,

I recently spent two years living in England, surrounded by history. We lived in a medieval barn where you could look up at curved ceiling beams that had held the roof up for centuries. From the kitchen window I could see the site of Roman baths, and I found stone tool fragments and shards of pottery every time I did any gardening. Even the oak trees were hundreds of years old, and I could imagine Roundheads and Cavaliers challenging each other under their spreading branches. All this made me want to write a book where history reaches into the present. At the heart of my new series, THE DRUMMOND VOW, is a lost chalice, a family heirloom that—if found—could hold the power to shape the destiny of three men, and the women who love them. I hope you enjoy this first book in the series.

Jennifer Lewis

JENNIFER LEWIS has been dreaming up stories for as long as she can remember and is thrilled to be able to share them with readers. She has lived on both sides of the Atlantic and worked in media and the arts before she grew bold enough to put pen to paper. She would love to hear from readers at [email protected]. Visit her website at www.jenlewis.com.

Jennifer Lewis

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Jordan

“Are you sure this is safe?”

Annie tried to keep her eyes off Sinclair Drummond’s enticing backside as he climbed the rickety wooden stairs to the attic.

“No.” He flashed her a grin that made her knees wobble. “Especially with the curse hanging over our heads.”

“I guess I’ll take my chances.” As his employee, Annie Sullivan could hardly refuse. She stepped onto the first rung of the hand-hewn stairs that were barely more than a ladder. They led up into the ceiling of the old barn, which was attached to the house so Drummond ancestors didn’t have to face bitter winds howling in from Long Island Sound while tending to their animals. Now all it contained was an impressive collection of spiderwebs and brittle horse tack. The steps creaked alarmingly. “Have you ever been up here?” She hadn’t, which was strange in itself.

Sinclair reached the top and pushed open a trap door. “Sure. When I was a kid. I used to hide up here when my parents argued.”

Annie frowned. She couldn’t imagine his quiet, dignified mother raising her voice, but she’d never met his father. He’d died in some kind of accident years ago.

“I doubt anyone’s been up here since.” He disappeared into the dark hole, and she climbed the stairs behind him with a growing sense of anticipation. A light snapped on, filling the opening with bright light. “I’m glad that still works. I didn’t fancy searching by candlelight.” Rain drummed on the shake roof overhead. His voice sounded far away, and she hurried to catch up to him. Her head cleared the entrance and she saw a row of uncovered bulbs dangling from the center beam of the windowless attic. Boxes and crates were piled along the sides, among disused tables, chairs and other, less identifiable pieces of furniture. The far wall was almost hidden behind a stack of big leather trunks bearing steamer labels. Despite the size of the room, very little of the wood floor was visible.

“So this is what three hundred years’ worth of pack rats leave behind them. Where do we start?” Her fingers tingled with anticipation at rifling through the Drummond family’s possessions. Which was funny, since that’s what she did every day in her job. Of course dusting and polishing silver wasn’t nearly as exciting as opening an old steamer trunk filled with mothballs and mystery.

Sinclair lifted the lid of a chest, which appeared to be filled with folded quilts. “Hell if I know. I suppose we just start plowing through and hope for the best.” He’d rolled up his sleeves, and she watched his muscular forearm reach boldly into the fabric. “The cup fragment is made of metal, apparently. Possibly silver, but more likely pewter. It doesn’t have any inherent value.”