The Cinderella Pact by Sarah Strohmeyer Read Free Book Online Page A

Barnes, the Nigel Barnes, said I was brilliant! I try to appear unflustered by this and reply with a classic non sequitur. “Yes, she’s not bad.”
    We have arrived at the closed conference room, but Nigel shows no signs of eagerness to make the meeting. Perhaps he is such a star here that his job is assured, whereas I, like any editor, can be replaced with a phone call.
    â€œSo what’s she like in person?” he asks. “Belinda, I mean.”
    â€œWell, she’s very tall,” I begin, uncertain whether it’s her physical beauty he’s interested in.
    â€œOh?” He makes a curious face. “Freakish Guinness Book of World Records tall or model tall?”
    â€œModel tall,” I say quickly. “Definitely not freakish. And she has long red hair . . .”
    â€œYes, yes,” he says, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I can tell all that from her photo. I mean, what’s she really like? Is she as laid back as she claims? Or is she actually a witch? Does she sleep around? Or is she perhaps a lesbian?”
    â€œLesbian!” I scream as if I’ve just seen a centipede.
    â€œYou have something against lesbians?”
    â€œNo. No I’m perfectly fine with lesbians. It’s just that I never thought of her in that way.”
    â€œSo she sleeps around, then? Lots of men, is it?”
    â€œNo!”
    â€œYou mean she’s a virgin?”
    â€œWhat?” I have to slap my hands to my ears. This is nuts. Belinda Apple doesn’t even exist and now she’s a lesbian whore with a Madonna complex.
    â€œI’m sorry,” he says, smiling. “I suppose what I’m trying to find out is whether it would be acceptable for me to, you know, look her up. I do travel to London quite a bit.”
    Look her up. My heart skips a few beats.
    â€œI mean”—he hesitates, stumbling—“I’m asking if . . . if she’s seeing anyone.”
    And then the sweetness wears off and the truth hits me. This pompous Princeton half-professor is talking to me like I’m an automated gatekeeper to the fantasyland that is Belinda Apple. Oooh, I so hate that. This has been my role since high school when my close friend Constance Maxwell—the concert pianist, the blond-wavy-haired, could’ve-been-a-cheerleader-but-was-too-smart Constance Maxwell—drew boys to me like dogs to roadkill.
    Was Connie seeing anyone? Did she like so and so? Did I think she’d go out with him? Could I put in a good word for him?
    â€œWe don’t delve into her personal life much,” I snap, a mischievous scheme popping into my head. “Besides, she’s quite preoccupied these days, what with Wills and all that. Royalty can be sooo demanding.”
    â€œBy Wills, you mean Prince William?” Nigel looks as though he’s swallowed an egg.
    â€œWhoops! I shouldn’t have said that. Then again, I suppose it’s obvious, with her living at Balmoral . . .”
    â€œBalmoral!” This elicits an even more satisfactory reaction. Nigel is practically salivating. “I’ve always wanted to go to Balmoral. I have quite a bit of Scottish blood in me, you know. My father was a MacLeod.”
    â€œReally?” What the hell is a MacLeod?
    â€œI’d give anything for a chance to stay at Balmoral. I’ve already been to Deeside. Lovely area, absolutely lovely. Um”—the wheels in Nigel’s brain are clicking—“I do wonder if there’s a chance she might fancy a visit from the likes of me.”
    â€œYou?”
    â€œWell, I am rather famous, aren’t I? I mean dozens of women write to me every day. They even send me their knickers.”
    â€œThat’s nasty.”
    â€œAnd I am a professor at Princeton. There’s some cachet in that. What do you think? Do you think I would pass? I mean, not to your American standards, rather to Belinda’s higher—er, British