The Cinderella Rules

by Donna Kauffman

  The smile vanished. “As the time got closer and closer to actually doing the shoot and giving the interview, the guilt began to gnaw at me. I knew I couldn’t go through with it. You’ve been nothing but fabulous to me. You and the Glass Slipper owners. I think what finally pushed me over the edge was finding out what this could mean to you careerwise—and what you had to lose if I was found out.”

  Valerie frowned. “How? I never talked to you about my career.” Or lack thereof, she thought.

  “I had a little chat with Aurora earlier this week. She called to see how things were going.”

  Aurora Favreaux was another of the three partners who owned and ran Glass Slipper. Along with Mercedes and Vivian dePalma, the three older women had played fairy godmother to countless women since beginning their business. While Mercedes was more Mother Superior and Vivian more . . . well, Mae West came to mind, Aurora was Mother Earth. Swathed in her trademark chiffon, she was the understanding one, the nurturer.

  “What did she say?” Valerie said. As far as she knew, all three women had been completely snowed by her presentation. And when she’d snagged Eric, she assumed they’d never guess she’d ever been anything but supremely confident about her abilities. And honest about her qualifications.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  Valerie started to argue, but then realized he was right. It wasn’t going to matter, since it was all going to come crashing down around her in very short order anyway.

  “I’ve come to love all of you,” he said. “I couldn’t hurt you like that.”

  “You do realize it’s too little, too late. You’ve already destroyed me. And God only knows what this will do to Mercedes, Aurora, and Vivian. They waffled for a long time on starting this whole project, but once they dealt with their various concerns, they’ve been totally gung ho. This magazine is their second child, their new dream.”

  “That’s why I called you here. It’s not too late.”

  “The shoot is fucking Monday, Eric,” she said, finally, finally feeling the righteous anger flow through her. The denial stage was now officially over. “How in the hell do you expect me to salvage this . . . this flaming fiasco—emphasis on the flaming—in seventy-two goddamn hours?”

  His smile this time was more tentative. Tremulous, some would say. Damn him. “I have a plan.”

  “A plan,” Valerie intoned, not a little dubiously.

  “Yes, a plan.” He took a deep breath, squared his magnificent shoulders. “I may not be the Prince Charming you bargained for. But I know someone who is.”

  chapter 2

  Jack Lambert was no Prince Charming. Just ask his ex-wife. Or, for that matter, any number of women dotting the globe. Charming, they might go for. Hell of a good time? Probably. But princely? That adjective wouldn’t make anyone’s list when it came to describing him.

  “You sure you haven’t been self-medicating?” Jack laughed and took a sip of beer. “I mean, it’s been a long time, so nothing personal, it’s just—”

  “I’m dead serious,” Eric responded. “I need your help. You know I wouldn’t ask if there was any other way. Besides, this is going to be mutually beneficial. I have a solution to both of our problems.”

  Jack’s current problem was unemployment. He was a sportswriter for an international newswire service, or had been until three days ago, when the service had been sold to the Reverend Yun Yun Yi, a right-wing religious zealot who made Reverend Moon come off looking like Mister Rogers. Jack had been stuck in Dubai at the time, writing about women’s tennis. It had taken him two days and four flights to get back to his small apartment in Alexandria. Virginia, not Egypt. Although, since his divorce, it could have easily been either.

  “What, exactly, could my sports background bring to the advice-for-the-lovelorn table?”

  “My readers aren’t lovelorn,” Eric chided him. “They’re intelligent, capable, caring women who are tired of being dicked around by the assholes of the world. That would be you, in case you were wondering.”

  “Hey, now. I never claimed to understand what women want. In fact, I willingly admit I have no idea what women want. And more to the point, I don’t want to know. Frankly, the way women’s minds work scares me.”

  “Well, when that woman was Shelby Morris, I agree. But not every woman’s a psycho.” Eric picked at the label on his bottle. “Did you ever stop to wonder why there’s never been a steady woman—any woman, really—in my life?”

  “Don’t pull this lonely shit on me. You wrote a couple of touchy-feely books about understanding women’s needs, and you and I both know they’re crawling out of the woodwork, wanting nothing more than to spend some time with Mr. I’m In Touch With My Feminine Side. Hell, your motto since high school has always been ‘Why Settle For One?’ It’s the greatest gig going, you’re a fucking genius. I’ve told you that a thousand times.”

  “Yeah. I remember. But that was your assumption. I just never called you on it. It was easier to do what I’ve always done. Go along with people’s assumptions. But—” He broke off, swore under his breath. “Okay, you know what? I can’t find an easy way to tell you this. I’ve wanted to for years, but I was afraid it would, I don’t know, ruin everything between us. But I’m in a jam, a really serious one, and so—well, maybe things happen the way they do for a reason . . . so I’m just going to say it straight out and trust you not to freak.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Eric glanced at the bottles lining the edge of their table, then looked back at him and said, “The deal is, I need you to cover for me on a job I signed up for. Because . . . well, I’m outing myself.”

  “Fantastic, man! I never understood why you didn’t do it years ago.”

  Eric’s mouth dropped open, then he leaned forward. “You mean, you knew?” he asked, his tone almost hushed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “What? Didn’t I just get done telling you you’ve got nothing to worry about? I never understood the secrecy thing anyway.” He laughed. “What, you’re afraid you won’t be able to handle them all when women can put a face with your name? Because if that’s what you need help with, well, you’ve come to the right place.”

  Eric sighed. “There are no women, Jack. There won’t be any women. Ever. I’m gay.”

  Jack was still laughing when Eric’s words struck him. “I’m sorry, did you just say you were—”

  “GAY!” Eric all but shouted. “Queer as the day is long. A raving homosexual. Why does everyone have to make this so goddamn hard?”

  Jack looked around, but thankfully between the basketball game on the big screen and the guys shooting pool, no one was looking at them. Not that he cared really, he was just trying to buy some time, process information that was so totally foreign to any concept he could assign to his childhood buddy, that, well . . . Nope. More time wasn’t helping. “What do you mean ‘everyone,’ ” he said finally, latching on to the one piece of information he could process rationally. “Who have you told?”

  Eric took a long sip, then propped his elbows on the table, bottle dangling between his hands. “You and Valerie. And I’m sorry I yelled. It’s just, while this is a huge relief, it’s also incredibly terrifying.”

  Still on rational processing time, Jack said, “Who the hell is Valerie?”

  “She’s the publicist for Glass Slipper, Incorporated. I just signed a contract to be the spokesperson for them in their new magazine. I don’t know if you’ve heard of them, but they run a company that does makeovers—extreme, whole-life makeovers—mostly for women, but occasionally they handle—”

  “Yeah, okay, got it.” Jack massaged his suddenly throbbing forehead. “So . . .” He had nothing. His brain had locked up. Eric. The guy he’d known since they were both nine years old. Eric Jermaine. High school quarterback. Six-two, two hundred twenty pounds of manly man muscle. Jock of the Year. Total Chick Magnet from birth. A guy whose roof he’d lived under throughout high school. Gay.

  St
ill not computing.

  “Say something, man,” Eric said quietly as the silence spun out.

  “How . . . how long have you—you know? Known?”

  “I did the denial thing through school, but I’ve probably known most of my life.” His laugh was strained. “And if you’re thinking about . . . you know, well, don’t. You’re not my type.”

  Jack plainly saw the strained tension beneath the attempt at humor. Guilt immediately replaced stunned disbelief. For Eric to carry such a huge burden for so many years and not feel he could trust him enough to tell him? Yes, that hurt. But more important, it made Jack feel like he’d failed the one person who meant more to him than anyone. “So,” he said at length, struggling desperately not to let him down now. “I guess when we were up in your tree house reading Playboy, you really were reading the articles?”

  Eric laughed and some of the tension lifted. “Pretty much.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? And none of that bullshit about not trusting me. You know me better than anyone.”

  “Hell, Jack, I could barely admit it to myself. You—you are, for all intents and purposes, my brother. My only family. Bullshit aside, I care what you think. I—I didn’t want you to think less of me.”

  “Jesus.” Jack swore under his breath. “Do you think so little of me? Never mind. I’m pretty sure you’re going to piss me off if we go any further there, so just shut up, okay? I know now, that’s what matters. And, for the record, I’m not going anywhere.”

  Eric’s sigh of relief was shaky. “Thank God. I know it might make things weird, but trust me, I’m still me. I just prefer—”

  “Let’s not go there, either,” Jack said, not ashamed to admit it was going to take him a bit longer to deal with the visuals that accompanied this type of news flash. “Why are you telling me this now? Does it have something to do with this gig you took at a new magazine?”

  “Yeah. I decided it was time to end the anonymous author thing, so I agreed to do a little PR for them, and write a monthly column as well. But I’m not willing to stay closeted anymore. I can’t come all the way out without turning Glass Slipper into a national joke, not to mention ruining Valerie’s career. So . . . I’m sort of hoping I can get you to stand in for me. Be a body double, so to speak.”

  “Excuse me? You want me to WHAT?”

  “It’s just one day of work. Someone has to show up at the cover shoot. It can’t be me. Not the real me.”

  “When is this thing?”

  “Uh . . . Monday.”

  Jack rubbed the back of his neck, not sure whether to laugh or curse a blue streak. He did a little of both. “If you aren’t self-medicating, brother, you should be. Because only someone on massive quantities of drugs would even dream of asking me to do this. You’re not a fucking genius, you’re fucking insane. Even if I was willing—which I am not—we’d never pull off a stunt like this. You have to know that. Can’t you just, you know, wait awhile longer? Until your contract is up?”

  “No. I’m already well past that personal deadline. Besides, no matter when I do it, Glass Slipper will take a hit. And my career would be over. The genius of this plan is everybody gets what they want, and nobody gets hurt.”

  Unsure what to say, Jack finished off the rest of his beer.

  “I know it’s a lot to ask,” Eric said quietly. “I know that.”

  “What were you thinking, agreeing to this? Never mind.” Jack swore silently. He tried to put himself in Eric’s shoes, but he honestly couldn’t imagine it. He couldn’t imagine living a life in denial, actively suppressing who he was. Yet Eric had done it for a lifetime. And in order to help him break free from that prison, all Jack had to do was help his best buddy out for a day or two. Put that way it didn’t seem like all that much to ask.

  Jack said nothing for several long moments, then blew out a long breath and said a silent prayer. “So, I don’t actually have to dispense advice, or give interviews or anything.”

  Eric tried not to sound too excited when he responded. “We don’t think so. You’ll have to meet with Valerie, she’s—”

  “You don’t think so? What do you mean you don’t think so?”

  “We can hammer out all the details tonight. We’re having dinner at her place.”

  “Oh, we are, are we? Pretty sure of yourself there, Peter Pan.”

  Relaxed now, Eric smiled and leaned back. “Ah, so this is how it’s going to be? I come out to my best friend and he makes gay jokes.”

  “You’re making me prance around on a magazine cover as Prince Charming?” Jack stroked his chin, pretending to ponder, then grinned. “Pretty much, yeah.”

  Eric shrugged. “Deal. And you know I do intend to compensate you very well for your—”

  “I don’t want your money,” Jack said flatly. There was no reason he couldn’t look for a job while he did this thing for Eric. How long could a photo shoot take, anyway? “We both know how much I owe you.”

  “Hey, I never meant to pull that—”

  “I know. Which is precisely why I’m not taking a red cent from you. You saved my life. The least I can do is give you back yours.”

  Eric was silent for a long moment.

  Jack wasn’t generally comfortable with emotional moments. Just ask Shelby. “Besides, if it’s my face on the magazine, I’ll get all the babes, right?”

  “Like you need more. But yes, mercifully, you can have them all. And I am going to pay you. I have to, or I just won’t feel—”

  “I swear to God, if you mention money—”

  “The contract was for seven figures. I can handle it, okay?”

  Jack’s mouth dropped open. No words would come out.

  “I thought that would get you.”

  “Telling women what they want to hear is worth that many zeroes? Jesus, man. For that kind of smack, I’ll tell them what they want to hear.”

  “Fine, except you’d have to know what that is,” he joked. “Women actually want to hear what I have to say.”

  “Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be,” he shot back, but Eric just grinned and downed the rest of his beer.

  An hour later he was home, showering, in preparation for dinner with Valerie. The whole idea was totally insane. He’d known before leaving the bar they’d never pull something like this off. Which meant he had to come up with another solution to this mess. One that would keep Eric out of the press and out of court. And keep a certain publicist quiet.

  And most important keep Jack off a freaking magazine cover.

  As he soaped up beneath the hot spray, he wondered what this publicist of Eric’s was like . . . and exactly what it was going to take for him to talk her out of suing his best friend for fraud. Jack might not understand women’s minds, but he had a pretty clear understanding of their bodies.

  Prince Charming Jack was not . . . but he definitely had other talents.

  THE CINDERELLA RULES

  A Bantam Book / January 2004

  Published by Bantam Dell

  A Division of Random House, Inc.

  New York, New York

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2004 by Donna Jean

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  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Bantam Books is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Kauffman, Donna.

  The Cinderella rules / Donna Kauffman.

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  e-ISBN 0-553-89881-7

  1. Triangles (Interpersonal relations)—Fiction. 2. Washington (D.C.)—Fiction. 3. Women ranchers—Fiction. 4. Montana—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3561.A816C56 2004

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